


Strawberry Fields

by keelywolfe



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 37,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keelywolfe/pseuds/keelywolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slightly AU, set after Bachelor Party but without Doyle having had his vision about Buffy. Doyle is only a Messenger, but the Powers That Be have a slightly different task in mind for him now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strawberry Fields

Chapter One   


 

From the middle of the crumpled bed, he tried not to whimper. 

There was no pain, not yet, but it was coming. He could tell by now, the first bare thread of it unraveling, leaving a trail of coming agony. A bottle was clutched loosely in his hands at an awkward angle, a thin trickle of amber liquid spilling from it and soaking through the sheets.

He didn't care, couldn't really because everything was wound into that single thread of pain and he had to stifle tears, detested weeping and the pain but almost worse was knowing what came with it. 

The vision. Pain, yes, oh yes, there was no mistaking the pain but it was the vision that kept him here in his ruined bed, staring into darkness that wasn't as dark since life had taken a turn at twenty-one. 

"Please, no more," Doyle whispered, his voice crackling with dryness. "Please. I can't--" It was still coming, pitiless and emerald hard. He buried his face in his arms, too tired to even plead. It couldn't have lasted longer than half a minute, blurred images raking through his brain and he choked out a rasping scream, the bottle rolling free and clattering to the floor in a wash of spilled alcohol. 

The images stopped long before the pain and it was several minutes before he finally managed to shift back up, wiping at his damp cheeks with back of his hand. Leaning against the wall, he rested his head against it and willed the throbbing to ease.

It was not going to happen again. He believed it with all the desperate, clutching hope of those who visited the healing waters in Lourdes. He had no choice but to believe. Until the thread began to unravel again and all he could do was wait. And scream.

 

 

* * *

  
"So, before I even had time to go in for the second audition, they'd already signed Pamela Anderson up for the role, I mean, can you believe that?" Cordelia slouched down in her chair with a scowl, fiddling with an ink pen. "She's got more plastic in her than a Tupperware party."

With only the barest idea of who Pamela Anderson was, Angel gave her a blank look which he hoped would make her give up on explaining the loss of her last audition. Sometimes it worked and she would give him a lovely look of  _silent_  disgust before going to do things like file paperwork or even type. But today was not his day for wishes to be granted. Cordelia, oblivious to all but her lost chance, stabbed a manicured nail in his direction.

"Exactly! How could they pick her?" Cordelia gestured at herself, her designer clothes carefully made to cling in all the right places, her shoes which probably cost half of what Angel paid in her a month. "Do you think Pamela Anderson is prettier than me?" she asked seriously.

Angel was saved from having to answer by Doyle coming in. Calling his look 'worse for wear' would really be giving it too much credit. His clothing was the kind of rumpled that declared firmly they'd been slept in, possibly more than once. Eyes red-rimmed and he was a shade of pale that would have made most vampires look healthy. All of it told a long story about a doomed love for alcohol and the leftover bastard child called hangover, but Angel looked back down at his magazine and said nothing. Doyle's proclivity for drinking was nothing Angel could stop and so long as he kept out of trouble, it was none of his business. 

Tact and Cordelia, however, had never even met much less shared a handshake. "Gee, Doyle, looking a little rough around the edges there, don't you think?"

Doyle had stumbled over to the coffee machine and was pouring a cup of dubious, dark liquid that might possibly even have been coffee the day before. He tossed the cup back with barely a grimace and poured another, leaning against the counter in a way that suggested he actually needed the support. "Yeah," he mumbled, sipping his second cup more sedately. Angel hoped Cordelia was at least capable of calling 911. One more cup of that coffee and he was afraid Doyle would go into a coma. "Think I'm coming down with a touch of the flu." 

"Must be that vicious Jack Daniels strain that's going around," Cordelia said sweetly, slapping her notepad down on Angel's desk with more force than was strictly necessary. As expected, Doyle flinched from the noise, actually wobbling before steadying himself. 

"Cordelia," Angel warned softly, but Doyle cut him off.

He pressed a hand to his heart in mock pain. "You wound me, princess," Doyle said quietly, but some hint of sincerity in his tone seemed to mollify Cordelia. She picked up her notepad and flipped through the pages of neat writing. "All right, just the basics here today. One girl being stalked by her boyfriend, luckily of the normal, human variety that gives us so much joy. However, he will be in jail until tomorrow morning so that leaves us with..." She flipped to the next page, chewing fiercely on the end of her ink pen. "Aha! One Mr. Tobias, who is evicting a group of Chokya demons from his apartment complex and wants us to help to make sure it goes smoothly." 

"An eviction?" Doyle took the notebook and squinted blearily at the writing before giving up and tossing it back on the desk. "No offense, but we're supposed to be investigators. When you know where the people are, there's not much investigating to be done. May as well play Clue by yourself. Since when are we hired muscle?"

Angel looked at Cordelia sourly. "Since he was here before I got up this morning and Cordelia took the job before I could say no."

"It's a perfectly legitimate job," she declared, standing and retrieving her notebook. "And unless the Sundance Kid has a vision today, your schedule isn't exactly overflowing." 

Was it his imagination or did Doyle go even paler at the thought of a vision? Not that Angel blamed him; a vision on top of a hangover had to be distinctly unpleasant. 

"All right," Angel agreed heavily. "Let's just get this over with." He pulled his coat on before laying a steadying hand on Doyle's shoulder. "You coming?" he offered, giving him the option of bowing out gracefully.

To his surprise, Doyle nodded an agreement. "Yeah, I'm with you. Wanna go through the sewers or in the trunk of the car?"

As unpleasant as the sewers were, it wasn't a long walk and there hadn't been a trunk created that Angel found to be living anywhere near the word comfortable. "Sewers," he decided and Doyle shrugged, tossing back the rest of his coffee before following him downstairs. 

Halfway down, and out of Cordelia's earshot, Angel finally asked, hesitantly, "Are you all right?"

"'M fine, why?" Doyle answered distractedly, his eyes on the stairs.

"It's just, you smell--" Doyle stopped and gave him a vaguely horrified look.

"I  _smell_?" Angel watched with some bemusement as Doyle lifted an arm and took a cautious sniff.

"No, I'm not commenting on your personal hygiene," he paused, frowning at the tousled state of Doyle's hair and decided to let it go. "I mean, you smell strange."

"Strange?" Doyle repeated, bewildered. "Strange how?"

Angel gave him an exasperated look. "If I knew how it was strange, then it wouldn't exactly be strange, now would it."

"I guess not," Doyle replied dubiously. He pulled up the front of his shirt and gave it a sniff. "Maybe I'm using a new laundry detergent, eh?"

It wasn't worth pointing out that he would have known if the smell was soap. It wasn't unpleasant, precisely, but it wasn't something he normally smelled on Doyle. It made him want to lean in and inhale it deeply, taste it to see exactly what that strangeness was. But that would be a serious infringement of personal space and while Doyle was a fairly laidback guy, there were limits. Being sniffed by a vampire probably rated up there. 

Instead, Angel held the trapdoor open for Doyle and followed him down silently. 

"What the hell is a Chokya demon, anyway?"

 

* * *

 

  
The second night he gave up on the whiskey. With the first vision still trembling in the back of his mind, hanging there behind his eyes, he staggered out of his apartment to a bar he knew downtown. The air was heavy with smoke too thick to be simply nicotine and it stung his aching eyes, but it was easy to find what he was looking for. 

Easy to let the other man take him around back and press him against a rough brick wall, his mouth tasting of the liquor Doyle hadn't drank that night. Strong, taller than him, but only human, and Doyle gasped when he bit lightly at the curve of his neck and knew he couldn't do it. Mumbled apologies and a dim struggle later left him laying on the concrete, the taste of blood sharp and bitter in his mouth, too stunned to reply to the wash of insults that were both vicious and true, fucking little cocktease that he seemed to be. 

He tested the cut on his lip with the tip of his tongue, slick blood dribbling down his chin, and it was so against any gay stereotype he'd ever heard that Doyle laughed, choking on the sound as it made pain flare in his head. 

The man was still standing there, blood griming his fist and Doyle flinched, expecting another blow, perhaps a real beating to round out the evening. But the blow came from within, no faint wave of warning before he was dropped into true pain and he  _saw_. 

It barely eased when the images halted and he could feel gravel in his hair, stuck to the back of his coat. The other man was gone. Too drained for humiliation or shame, for anything but the heavy throb of pain that nothing could reach, Doyle curled up on the ground amidst cigarette butts and broken glass and cried, digging his fingers into his scalp as though to tear the pain away with his bare hands. 

No one spoke to him. 

 

* * *

  
"What's going on?" Angel asked. He pressed a cool cloth into Doyle's hand and he accepted it wordlessly, draping it over his forehead. 

"Told you, I was coming down with the flu," he muttered, eyes hidden beneath terrycloth. 

"You have a cut on your lip," Angel said mildly. "Was that the flu too?"

"Cut myself shaving."

It was so ridiculous that Angel had to resist the urge to shake him and had to cross his arms over his chest. "I haven't shaved for a long time, but even I know you don't generally shave your lips."

"You do if you slip." Doyle sat up with a sigh, scrubbing his face with the washcloth. "Angel, I promise, I'm just a little under the weather." At Angel's skeptical look, he added, "Didn't I come to you the last time I was having trouble?"

"After I cornered you and forced you to tell me."

"Yeah, and I'm cornered right now and I'm telling you, it's all right."

Angel didn't believe him, the sincerity in Doyle's eyes too artful and pleading to be real. It stung him deeply and he turned away, letting Doyle keep his lies for the moment. Sooner or later he'd confess, and when he did, Angel would be there to help.

He only hoped it would be before Doyle was really in trouble.

 

* * *

The third night he went to a different bar, flashier and brighter, and the noise dug into his already aching head like claws. He never felt his humanity so strongly as when he was surrounded by demons, their faces as strange and horrifying to him as the one he saw occasionally in the mirror and it reminded him too much of the first moments of blinding terror. Always, always, he remembered it, frozen horror where no skittering thought could break through his panic and he'd thought himself damned. 

He'd only been half right.

Crept onto the stage and sang the only song he could think of, something by Prince or whatever the hell his name was or wasn't now, his voice cracking ridiculously on the high notes. He'd expected laughter or even cruelty, standing beneath the spotlight with sweat creeping down his face. He'd never expected the silence, looming over him like pity and he'd stopped halfway through the song, stumbling down the stairs. 

Gentle hands caught him, red eyes in a green face filled with that same pity and Doyle hadn't waited to hear the truth, knew exactly what the demon would have told him. He'd seen it every hour of the night, the blurry fast-forward of images he'd been avoiding for days. 

He knew exactly where he was supposed to go.

 

 

* * *

 

  
The problem with living in a place that had a door was that, inevitably, people knocked on it. Or pounded on it in the middle of the night, as the case may be.

Still shaking off sleep, Angel padded over in bare feet to open it. If it was Cordelia, he swore that someone had better be dead and not someone of the cockroach persuasion. He'd had to have the exterminator in twice since that week she'd stayed here. Was it part of his penance that he could never get a straight eight hours of sleep? Righteousness could be a cruel master. 

"All right, all right," he muttered, pulling open the door. Only to stumble back as Doyle fell inward. Angel caught him automatically, nearly sending them both to the floor. He caught his balance, dragging Doyle back up with him. His head lolled back, his open eyes the only sign that he wasn't unconscious. 

"Doyle?" Green eyes rolled towards him and then away, and in his panic Angel shook him harder than was strictly necessary, dragged a pained moan from the limp man in his arms. 

"Doyle? What happened? Are you hurt?" Angel asked. He moved them over to the sofa and settled Doyle on it, searching with careful fingers for any injuries. Someone had attacked him, over another debt perhaps? He found no broken bones or obvious bruises and Doyle was batting him away before he could check again. The smell of whiskey was strong around him, his eyes lined with red. He looked like hell, and that was saying something from someone who'd seen it firsthand. 

"What happened?" Angel asked again, slowly. It wasn't like Doyle to come over for something as simple as being drunk; otherwise he expected he'd have seen the man a lot more often. After a brief morning check in, he'd been conspicuously absent at the office the day before but that was hardly unusual; Doyle didn't exactly get paid by the hour. 

Doyle managed to push up into a sitting position, wincing and trembling visible. "I--I can't..." he rasped out. He struggled to say something else, his voice vanishing into a cough and Angel started to ask if he needed a drink, some water or even another glass of whiskey. 

He moved surprisingly fast for someone who looked like they'd been a couple rounds with a Chevy truck. One moment he was on the sofa, shaking and sick and the next he was over Angel, pressing their mouths together in a sloppy kiss. Angel snatched him away, and was forced to catch Doyle again by the arms as he sagged to the floor. He was sobbing, curling around Angel's grip to rest his head on the vampire's shoulder. "I can't do this. I can't--"

"What happened?" Angel punctuated it with a gentle shake, trying to get him at least talking. They could worry about all this making sense later. 

But Doyle hadn't stopped, grating out harsh, nonsensical things, "--I can't, they can't expect me to do this, I'm trying me best and I--" He cut off abruptly, Doyle's eyes rolling back as he started convulsing and at least this was something familiar, holding Doyle and soothing him until the vision passed. 

Sweat made Doyle's clothes stick to him damply; Angel could feel it through the back of his shirt as he cradled Doyle in his lap. Glazed green eyes drifted up to him, awash with tears. "Talk to me," Angel urged, patting away the sweat on Doyle's forehead with the sleeve of his robe. "Tell me what you saw."

The laughter was unexpected, shrill and pained. Doyle tried to push away and sit up before surrendering with a soft moan and sliding back down. "What did I see?" he said, shaking his head and the laughter held a bitter edge, closer to hysteria. "S'what I always see, isn't it? Us. I keep seeing us."

"Us," Angel repeated, trying to make sense of it. 

"Us," Doyle agreed, fresh tears on his cheeks and his nose was running. He wiped it with the back of his arm, making Angel wrinkle his own nose in disgust. "I see us--" He broke off with a gesture, crudely poking the finger of one hand into the loosely cupped palm of the other and Angel started, because that was pretty unmistakable. 

"Oh. Us," Weakly. Angel had a sudden wish that he had gotten the bottle of whiskey in the back of his cupboard because this was not turning out to be a normal evening, even for them. If the Powers That Be had designs on his virtue, they usually went the other way. "So you had a vision about us having sex, got drunk and came over here to do the deed?" Angel asked disbelievingly. 

Doyle laughed harshly. "A vision? A vision." As Angel watched helplessly, his laughter seeped back into tears. "More like a baker's dozen, every night. They get worse every time. About every fucking half an hour, like clockwork. You could bake a cake by following it."

Dozens of visions, with all the pain that came packaged with them. Angel couldn't think of words to express his horror. It was a miracle Doyle had waited as long as he had to come here, even more that he had actually made it.

"I couldn't take it anymore," Doyle continued, his words slurring into each other. He was moving now, as loose-limbed and awkward as a newborn calf as he crawled into Angel's lap, straddling him. Angel let him, his hands fluttering nervously, wanting to stop Doyle, not wanting to hurt him any more. 

"I can't take it," Doyle said, simply. His face was so close to Angel's it made his eyes try to cross, blurring it into something strange. Angel caught him by the shoulders, holding him away when Doyle would have moved closer. 

"How do you know this will make them stop?" Angel asked, his own voice rough to his ears. Doyle was sitting on him and  _moving_ , resisting Angel's efforts to keep him still and it was more distracting than Angel wanted to admit. Doyle would hardly have been in preference for a bed companion if he'd been given a choice, but he hadn't, and the half-demon wasn't exactly unattractive by any standards. 

"Isn't that what we do?" Doyle smiled thinly, tilting his head so he could rub his cheek against Angel's restraining arm. It was so deliberately seductive, calculated, that it shamed him at how it made him hard. How was it he could be so casually sexy here and fumble it daily with Cordelia? "We follow the visions like good little pups, we do what we're told and we save the day. We help the hopeless, don't we?"

They did, and Doyle was smiling, his teeth digging lightly into his lower lip and he had to know what that did to Angel's demon. Doyle tried to lean in again, stopped by Angel's grip on his shoulders. He strained against it, not even flinching as Angel tightened it painfully. 

"I can't do this, Doyle, you know I can't."

"Do you honestly believe you're going to find any perfect happiness in fucking me like this?" Doyle said, and the coldness in his usually easy voice made Angel close his eyes briefly, wondering how much pain it took to make his friend like this. He opened them again to see Doyle wetting his lips, slowly, deliberately. "Help me."

He would have been able to resist a seduction but Angel couldn't resist his pain, the hot shine of it in his eyes. Doyle was surprisingly light in his arms as he carried him to the bed. Doyle didn't wait, briskly stripping off his shirt and unbuckling his pants the moment Angel released him. 

Angel mimicked him, slower, stripping off his robe to leave him just in boxers. Suddenly, this all seemed very awkward and he had to fight the ridiculous urge to put the robe back on. With his goal achieved, Doyle had lost all his seductiveness and was rummaging in the night table by Angel's bed. 

"D'you have anything to make this easier, like?" Doyle's voice was muffled as he leaned over further, nearly falling off the bed as he looked under it. 

"Easier?" Angel repeated blankly. 

Doyle flashed him an exasperated look. "Lubricant?"

Flustered, because there was only one reason he would have any use for lubricant, Angel dug a small tube out of the back of the drawer. Doyle didn't bat an eye at the fact it was half-empty though Angel squirmed inwardly. A quarter of a millennium old and he was still embarrassed to have proof that he masturbated. 

Doyle's eyes were shadowed now, lowered, and his brisk manner faltered. "You're gonna have to--"

"I know," Angel interrupted hastily, making no move to get on the bed. He shifted from foot to foot, feeling absurdly naked and practically virginal. It had been a long time since he'd had sex with anyone, over a century since he'd done it with a man and even then, he hadn't had any preferences for men. Women were softer, sweeter, and in abundance. There had been no reason to have men, other than the occasional drunken foray and being Angelus hadn't really made it a gentle experience, just mindless fucking with bloodslicked skin and mouths.

Still, his few experiences had left him with the knowledge of what to do. It was a shame that it didn't make him feel any better about doing it.

"Right," Doyle pushed his opened pants down and off, leaving Angel with a brief glimpse of nudity before he drew his legs up. If anything, Doyle suddenly looked even more awkward than Angel felt. "Um, how do you," Doyle's voice cracked and he settled for a weak gesture. "Want me?"

The sudden surge of relief nearly made him weak at the knees and even that made him ashamed. Doyle had apparently already decided that he was going to be the one on the bottom, not that Angel would have told him no, but...if that was how the vision wanted it to be Angel wasn't about to argue the point. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Doyle to roll over onto his knees so he wouldn't have to look in his eyes. Certainly he doubted Doyle would protest that. But the way he was still trembling, the shade of pain still behind his eyes, made Angel rethink it. Facing each other wasn't going to be better but it would probably be a little easier for Doyle to lay there and--

They were really going to do this. "Why would the Powers want us to have sex?" he blurted. He had a sudden image of a group of omnipotent beings hovering in their little cloud-dome, waiting for their hero to give them some homemade porn. Just when he thought his life had reached the borders of strangeness, it always pushed on through and found another continent of bizarre waiting to be discovered. 

"I don't know and I don't fucking well care!" Doyle was shaking again, his eyes squeezed shut. Angel wondered if he was fighting tears. It was worse to see him like this; skinny and naked, arms wrapped around his knees as he shook. "I'll be having another one soon, Angel, please."

He didn't wait for Doyle to beg. Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, Angel took the lube from Doyle before guiding him down to lie on his back. He went willingly, allowing Angel to maneuver him into a comfortable position. His normally deft fingers fumbled with the cap on the tube and Angel realized he was shaking, too. The last time he'd had sex with a soul, he'd awoken to agony and loss, and the things his soulless counterpart had done still haunted his nightmares. Let this be right, he begged silently. It had to be right, it was a vision, and Doyle's visions had yet to lie to them.

He touched Doyle with slick fingers, automatically petting his hair with his free hand as Doyle made a soft sound of discomfort. Angel wondered if Doyle had done this before, didn't have the nerve to ask. If not, he learned quickly enough, spreading his legs further and letting Angel push his fingers in deeply. God, hot and silky soft but he barely had time to register it before Doyle was speaking. "Please, quick," Doyle urged thickly, "Before another one comes, please, please..."

Angel slipped his shorts down and off, and had to fight a rush of hysteria as he realized he wasn't hard enough to do it. Kneeling over his shaking, nearly crying friend wasn't exactly his usual jerk off material. Falteringly, Angel took himself in hand and stroked, trying to think of something, anything, to help matters along. True to his luck, his mind went completely blank without even an old Playboy centerfold lurking in a corner to peek out at him. 

He nearly fell off the bed in shock when cool, wet fingers wrapped around him, touching him. Doyle had large hands, strong and oily with lubricant and Angel arched into them without thinking, sucking in a sharp, unneeded breath as they squeezed. One thumb circling the head of his cock in a slippery little movement that had him gritting his teeth before they pulled away, sliding down to the comforter beneath them.

With damp, trembling hands he caught Doyle's hips and lifted, folding one leg over his shoulder. It had been years, years upon years, but his body knew what to do, pressing forward, the head of his cock against stubborn muscles that refused to give. A brief flash memory of Buffy but even she hadn't been this tight, excruciatingly hot against his much cooler flesh. Doyle had a double handful of the blanket clenched in his fists and he was staring glassily over Angel's shoulder. "Don't stop," he whispered, his eyes fixed. 

He was hurting him, had to be but it was too late, the pressure, the impossible heat was calling to him as much as the thrum of Doyle's blood and Angel pushed forward hard, felt the tightness give as he barely slid inside. The sound Doyle made was like a siren call to his demon, the softest cry of pain, and it made him push, forging past any resistance. He couldn't wait, pulling back and shoving in again, hard enough that the bed groaned a protest and God, so impossibly tight, clenching around his cock like a brutal fist. 

The skin beneath his hands was slippery with sweat and Angel dug his nails in automatically, holding Doyle still, pale skin beneath his palms and he itched to bring a flush of color to it. Deep redness drawn to the surface, purpling into sweet bruises and how lovely would it look. Doyle was lovely in this shaded light, dim and soft, touching the glistening dampness on his face and...Angel froze, shuddering, trying not to feel the cold heat of his inner demon, trying to keep still even as he hated himself for not being able to stop.

Doyle was crying, his face pinched tight as tears tracked down his cheeks. As he watched, they slid down into his hair and vanished, leaving salty lines of moisture as an accusation.

"Shh," Angel tried to soothe, shifting forward and stilling again as Doyle flinched. Guilt was like a noose, strangling him, and Angel could only whisper, "I'm sorry."

Green eyes flashed open. "Don't stop," Doyle whimpered. "You have to finish, you have to, it'll start again--" His voice rose, choked with hysteria, and he started moving, struggling against Angel's still body and sending brutal flashes of pleasure into the base of his spine, layer upon layer of heat. 

Desperately, Angel rocked his hips, one gentle thrust and Doyle calmed, his white-knuckled grip on the blankets easing. It wasn't enough, not good enough to just comfort him, not when Angel was doing this, using him like this, shame like the taste of ashes in the back of his throat. It made it easier to be gentle, easing the awkward curl of Doyle's legs over his arms as he pushed back inside. He heard Doyle take a breath and that sound wasn't pain, not at all. 

"Wait--" Doyle gasped, "Wait, I--" He couldn't, not with so many years crowding in, his demon howling in the back of his mind. Angel fumbled a hand free, sliding it down the wet skin of Doyle's belly and found him hard, blisteringly hot against Angel's cold palm but it warmed with the friction. Doyle was grabbing at his arms, a wild, keening cry escaping from him as scalding wet heat spurted over Angel's fist. His body clenched so tightly that Angel could feel it in his soul, thrusting mindlessly, needing that final release so damned much that when it came he gave a startled cry, draining himself in the willing clasp of Doyle's body. 

He collapsed, sagging down onto Doyle until he remembered that one of them needed to breathe and wasn't doing it very well with what was probably double his own weight pushing him into the mattress. Doyle's ragged moan as he pulled out made him flinch, easing off the man to lay beside him. 

Dark lashes trembled on Doyle's cheeks over the violet shadows under his eyes. Hesitantly, Angel touched the sweaty mass of his hair and was flooded with relief when Doyle didn't pull away. He wanted to speak but what to say? His etiquette wasn't really up to standard for normal situations and this was a tad beyond his meager skills. 

He'd nearly had Doyle's hair straightened when Angel realized he was asleep. Probably closer to unconscious given the state he was in. Angel wondered how long it at been since the half-demon had managed to actually sleep. Days, he'd said earlier. A vision nearly every hour for days. 

They were both cooling, Doyle more than Angel with sweat drying his skin to clamminess. Careful not to wake him, Angel managed to pull the comforter over them both. He went completely still when Doyle moved restlessly, shifting to lay closer and it was with cautious hands that Angel pulled him near, willing to take whatever passed for affection from this strange coupling. 

He didn't sleep for a long time, but held Doyle as he did, listening to each slow breath, the rhythm between them and his heart. 

 

* * *

 

 **  
Chapter Two    
**

 

He woke up feeling cold, not something he was accustomed to feeling. Angel automatically burrowed deeper into the blankets, pulling them over this head. Just because the cold wouldn't hurt a vampire didn't mean they liked feeling it. It was already too late; he was more awake than asleep, his brain starting to percolate and he started to remember. Doyle, the visions...the sex. 

The bed next to him was empty but still warm. Lifting his head from the blankets, Angel peered around the room. Nothing, which meant Doyle had left or--a sound from the bathroom told him it was the second option. Angel rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. He should probably get up and get some clothes on before Doyle came back out here. Maybe he should make breakfast or something, not that he had a lot of food in his refrigerator. Cordelia made an attempt to keep a small stock of groceries down here, although after having to throw away a carton of milk that was so far past the expiration date it had been spreadable, Angel had kept better track of what she'd left. At this particular moment, it wasn't much.

He was trying to remember if he'd ever seen Doyle eating Light 'n Fit yogurt when the man in question came out of the bathroom looking--pretty much as bad as he had the night before. Spending the night in a pile on the floor didn't seem to have done much for his wardrobe. From the rush of steam, Angel was guessing he'd used the shower and his hair was standing at odd angles. How was it that these people couldn't do their hair without a mirror? He'd been managing it for the better part of two centuries without any added mental trauma. 

Worse was the way Doyle was walking, shuffling practically to one of the large chairs that was against the wall. Angel watched as he lowered himself into one like an old man, groaning as he settled on the soft cushions. An apology sprang to his lips automatically and stayed there, unspoken. That was an early morning conversation that he wanted to have exactly never. 

 _Gee, Doyle, I'm really sorry for fucking bruises into your internal organs._  Angel shuddered silently. No, that was not going to be said, especially before coffee. 

Doyle just noticed he was awake and he swallowed hard, staring at the knot of his hands in his lap. "Hey."

"Morning," Angel said, volleying the burden of conversation back to Doyle. He didn't catch it, instead letting it fall limply between them. Angel was starting to regret very much that he hadn't taken the opportunity to put his pants on. At this particular moment, the bed would have to be actively on fire for him to feel like getting out of it. 

Doyle was still staring at his hands, as completely out of his depth as Angel. Seeing it gave Angel the strength to speak again. "Did you, um, want some breakfast?" he fumbled out. Oh, yeah, he was a man about town. Maybe he could get some track lighting and turn up the bass on his home theater system.

Doyle didn't seem to mind, latching on to the gambit gratefully. "I could eat." He met Angel's eyes, briefly, before his gaze skittered away. "I'll just go into the kitchen."

"Thank you," Angel muttered, waiting for him to walk carefully into the other room before climbing out of the bed. He dressed quickly, barely looking at what he was shrugging into. A shower would wait until later, even though he could smell--

Angel groaned. He could smell pure sex, the heavy salt mixture of sweat and semen. His body responded automatically and with some difficulty, Angel fastened his pants. "Where were you when I needed you last night?" Angel muttered, making sure his shirt was untucked. 

It was easier in the kitchen, plenty of things to play with awkwardly rather than talk. Eggs to crack and mix into the semblance of an omelet to set in front of Doyle, who seemed intent on staring at anything that was nowhere near Angel. He muttered a thank you and started eating, shoveling it in with surprising enthusiasm. Constant visions probably did have an effect on the appetite. 

Angel poured blood into a mug for his own breakfast, watched it turn circles in the microwave, watched Doyle eat out of the corner of his eye. His fork scraping on the plain white plate, Doyle was eating with a determination that spoke of his discomfort. 

I know exactly how you feel, Angel thought wryly, taking a sip from the mug. Down to the last internal squirm. This is what happened with the passage of time. When he'd been alive, things had been much simpler. Bellow out a goodbye, stagger home and fall asleep outside in the stable. Now there were mornings after, and knowing that eventually they would have to talk about  _why_. Which could hopefully wait until the worst of the bruises were healed and he had showered, and he really wished he hadn't remembered that. He took another sip, washing away the scent of sex on the back of his tongue with animal blood. 

"Hello? Anyone alive down there or a reasonable facsimile of it?" They both turned to watch Cordelia push open the lift door and peer inside. Seeing Angel, she walked briskly in, stopping in surprise when she realized Doyle was sitting at the table, finishing up the last of his breakfast.

"You're in early," she frowned. "Did you have a vision or something?" Doyle went very still and glanced at Angel so briefly that he almost didn't see it. The corners of his eyes were marked with tiny lines of broken blood vessels, evidence of pain and exhaustion. 

"No," Doyle replied, shortly. He stood and set his plate in the sink, rinsing it quickly. "I've got a few things that need taking care of. I'll see if I can't catch up with you in a couple hours." His gait was fairly normal as he walked to the elevator. It was obvious only to Angel that he had to concentrate to keep it that way. 

Cordelia took his chair and shook her head. "Well, he's cheery in the early hours, are you cooking?"

Angel was still looking at the elevator door. "What? Oh, yeah, sure." He set his barely touched cup on the counter and opened the refrigerator in search of more eggs. It was easier to concentrate on that for the moment, cracking the eggs into the bowl he'd used before and whisking them into a frothy mass.

"You should probably get over to Stalker Lady's house too, and get the details of Mr. Not-So-Right."

"Yeah," he agreed absently. Feed Cordelia, help lady being stalked. See Spot Run. He could handle that right now. Doyle he would handle later. Ignoring the sudden rush of embarrassment from that thought, Angel concentrated on not burning the eggs. 

 

* * *

One of the biggest perks of wearing all dark clothing was that it made laundry a lot quicker. Angel was folding the last of it, stacking another towel on top of the growing pile. A half-full basket was at his feet, more towels and sheets waiting to be folded. 

The case earlier in the day had been far too easy, typical moronic boyfriend going right after the girl after he'd only just been released. He was back in jail, this time with a much higher bail, and Angel was back here, doing laundry. Waiting. Killing time was less enjoyable than killing demons and now that his laundry was finished, he was starting to run out of mindless tasks. He'd managed to keep his mind carefully blank for most of the day, between working the stalker case and doing housework. Maybe the kitchen floor could use a wash.

Angel paused, a small towel hanging from his hands. Was it really that difficult to think about the sex, try to figure out what it was the Powers wanted from them?

God, yes. 

It was like having sex again, without his soul winging away in the aftermath, had reawakened his carefully dormant hormones. He'd spent half the day trying to walk normally, grateful that his shirt was long enough to cover the not so little problem. Walking into the apartment had been like getting slapped in the face with it, Essence of Sex, and all of it smelled like Doyle. 

Completely absurd, considering he'd never even looked at Doyle as a sexual creature before but his body didn't seem to be giving a damn, given the way he'd looked the night before. So pale, stretched out beneath him. A touch too thin, his ankles had been bony and hard, all of him hard and dusted with dark sprigs of hair, a crosshatched pattern that led downward to where Angel had been inside, hot, volcanic heat and he'd-- 

And he'd cried. 

Angel leapt at the sudden pounding on the door, accidentally tearing the towel he was holding in half. He tossed the ragged pieces on the washer with an internal sigh and went to answer it. 

He didn't collapse the moment Angel opened the door this time, stood there instead with clear, green eyes that met Angel's pin-straight for the first time since they'd started this. Strained, not quite desperate but it wouldn't take long to get there, not long at all. Now they were going to talk, spill out everything between them and they could figure out what the hell had happened.

"I need you to do it again."

Angel's thoughts stuttered to a halt. "Wha--" He didn't have a chance to continue, Doyle pushed past him and braced his arms against the top of the sofa, leaned against it. 

"I need you to do it again," he repeated, his fingers buried in the soft fabric as he gripped it. "After last night, it was all right for a while, you know? But then, I had another one just on my way here. So we have to do it again." Doyle turned to him, eyes pleading, and Angel had to fight the urge to go to him. It was just the five steps between them, Angel could push him back against the sofa and have him, right there.

He didn't move. Because this was not right, not even really sex, this was Doyle whoring himself out to stop the pain and no amount of hormonal insanity was going to make that all right.

"Doyle," Angel began, trying to be gentle, "We need to talk first, all right? We need to find out what's going on so we can stop it."

Doyle was already shaking his head, the same franticness of the night before seeping into him. "We already know how to stop it, don't we? Have us a quickie, you bang off, and I get a good night's sleep. Seems pretty straightforward to me."

Angel looked at him silently for a beat, studying Doyle's earnest face before saying, softly, "I'm sorry I hurt you last night."

"What?" Doyle blinked and shook his head wildly. "Fine, man, great, apology accepted, can we get on with it?" He walked up to Angel and pressed against him with the same gentle tilt to the head that had seduced the demon in him a hundred times before Doyle's grandfather had been born. Begging for someone to kiss that soft, tender line down to the point of his pulse where redness would boil out, sweet and hot. 

Instead, Angel caught his shoulders and held Doyle away from him. "We can't just keep doing this to get rid of the visions. We need to find out what's causing them to begin with."

Doyle jerked away from him, burying his face in his hands. There was one long, hitched breath and he looked up again. Probably a little drunk, Angel could smell a trace of liquor, beneath it his own shampoo and then just Doyle. That something strange that he'd smelled on him before, that he hadn't quite placed but as he inhaled it again, it clicked in his head, an ancient key in an old lock. 

Heavy and salt, oddly reminiscent of mown hay, Doyle smelled like semen, like he'd jerked off in the car on the way here, and maybe he had, maybe it helped stave off the visions or maybe that was just the reaction he had to them. 

They'd already done it once..."All right, for tonight. But tomorrow we figure this out."

"You got it, man," Relief smoothed lines on Doyle's face that Angel hadn't even noticed until they were gone. 

He didn't carry Doyle to the bed this time, giving in to that urge to simply push him against the back of the sofa. For just a moment, he let himself press his face into the curve of Doyle's neck and inhaled, salt-sweet skin that he didn't dare taste, the thrum of the blood beneath it and the hot scent of fear, trembling in the air.

"It's all right," he murmured, felt Doyle shudder when his lips brushed his neck. Quickly, he changed tactics, sliding up to lick at Doyle's ear. That was too much of a guilty pleasure, and wasn't he indulging in enough?

Doyle's hands were between them, fumbling at his shirt and Angel helped him pull it over his head, leaving hard, smooth skin free for the touching. This was so different from being with a woman, even as a soulless vampire. Darla had been demanding in her own right, wanting the sweet coaxing that all women seemed to crave and for all her insanity, Dru had been much the same. And Buffy--he didn't want to think about Buffy. 

Doyle hardly needed any coaxing, already hard against Angel's thigh and Angel caught him by the hips and lifted, grinding them together. The couch skittered on the hard floor and they followed it, until it hit the wall, the sudden jolt making them both gasp. 

"Can you quit messing around and just do it?" Doyle hissed, shoving Angel back as he fought to get his pants undone. 

Stung, Angel stepped away. "I'm sorry but sacrificial lambs lost their appeal a few decades ago." He opened his own pants more slowly, kicking them off to reveal he wasn't quite as ready as Doyle wanted him to be. Vampire blood was more sluggish than a human's, without a heartbeat to push it along, it was less eager to flow to areas that really needed it.

He fought the urge to flinch at Doyle's critical look. "Yeah, no one gives a decent gift these days."

Angel didn't even have a chance to flinch as Doyle sank to his knees, and, God, practically inhaled his cock, and if he was hot elsewhere the wet suction of his mouth could have melted steel. 

At the moment, it was forging it instead, warm hands sliding down the back of Angel's thighs as Doyle sucked him in deeply. As long as it had been between blowjobs, he could still register Doyle's clumsiness, trying to work his tongue around the thickness of Angel's cock in his mouth but he was sucking like the survival of the world was hinged on his ability to deep-throat. Angel felt the wood frame of the sofa splintering beneath his grip and couldn't make himself let go because Doyle's mouth was brutal and cruel and better he break the sofa than accidentally take off Doyle's head. 

He actually cried out at the loss as Doyle let him go, the air suddenly cold on his wet skin. The half-demon scrambled to his feet, bracing his arms against the sofa back, on either side of Angel's. 

"Now do it," Doyle panted, his head lowered. It gave Angel a brief glimpse of wet, reddened lips and then he was ghosting a hand down Doyle's back, and lower.

"Wait, I need--"

"No, you don't. Do it!"

He was shaking so hard he had to try twice to position himself and Doyle was right, he was already slick inside which meant he'd done it before he came over tonight. One long, hard glide inside and gray sparkled in Angel's vision, the heat of him scalding against Angel's cooler skin. 

Doyle choked out a sound, something Angel couldn't even try to understand and he forced himself to keep it gentle, battering the demon within him back. No, he told it fiercely, I'm doing this, and I'm not going to hurt him again.

Braced on one hand, Angel slid the other over Doyle's chest, slippery wet with sweat and then lower, exploring without a hint of yesterday's hesitancy. Between his legs, crisp hair and the heaviness of his balls in Angel's palm and he felt more than heard Doyle gasp, one hand flailing at Angel's arm to stop him. 

Deliberately, Angel pushed hard into him, forcing Doyle to brace himself with both arms to keep from smashing his face into the back of the sofa. "I told you, no sacrificial lambs," he whispered into Doyle's ear before sliding his tongue over it, wet and nasty and got a harsh cry in response. 

He couldn't stop now, hunching his hips in quick, stilted thrusts. The angle was bad and he could see little drops of sweat clinging to the ends of Doyle's dark hair, splattering down onto skin as each push rocked into him. 

One of Doyle's hands was over his on the sofa, short nails digging in until there was a fresh scent spilling into the air, blood, and Angel couldn't stop the demon from showing itself on his face but he could keep it from hurting Doyle, even as he was losing it beneath him, throwing his head back against Angel's shoulder as he cried out and came. That same painful heat pouring over Angel's hand, the smell of it fresh and heavy in his sinuses, and his senses overloaded as he wondering what it might taste like, if it was the same sea flavor as the scent. Orgasm was almost too pale a word for it, coming for what felt like a small eternity and, God it was good, too good, wicked and wonderful. 

For a long moment Angel forgot he didn't have to breathe, the feel of Doyle's heart hammering against his hand like a memory of being human. He pressed his face between Doyle's shoulder blades and willed it into smoother lines before he pulled back, just a little. Not out, because his body was still pulsing with it, and he should pull away because this wasn't what either of them had really wanted but it had still been...

...so good.

"Are you all right?" Angel managed to whisper. His voice was a dry rasp and he swallowed hard, trying to work some moisture into his mouth. Doyle was completely still beneath him, his face buried in his arms, didn't even make a sound as Angel finally withdrew. Panic flashed through him, that despite his best efforts he'd hurt his friend anyway, and Angel touched him gingerly, softly, "Doyle?"

"Why did you do that?" Barely a whisper, muffled into Doyle's arms.

"I--" Angel hesitated, feeling that same nakedness he had the night before. "I did what you asked me to do."

"No." Doyle straightened, pulling away from Angel's touch. "No, I just wanted you to fuck me. I didn't mean I wanted you to make me--" He choked off the words and closed his eyes. 

"Make you what?" It was slowly coming into focus and Angel could only stare at his friend disbelievingly. "Made you like it?" Doyle shuddered, wrapped his arms tightly around himself. "That's...what are you talking about? If you have to be here anyway, you may as well enjoy it, right?"

"No," Doyle whispered, eyes still closed. "It's not right at all." He moved slowly, stooping to pick up his clothes without looking once at Angel, walking around him as though he were a lamp or a chair, before walking silently into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him and Angel heard the lock click. 

Angel stood in the middle of the shambles of his living room, his own clothes still scattered at his feet, the evidence drying on the back of the mostly ruined sofa. The water sprang on in the bathroom and he listened to Doyle showering, washing away the sex as quickly as he could.

Well, fuck.

 

 

* * *

 

  
 **  
Chapter Three   
**

He'd always thought he'd seen the worst in his lifetime. During his time, Angel had seen war and plague, famine and filth. He had seen death in flowing rivers of blood, a greater portion of it inflicted by him. He'd slaughtered the friends of the love of his life, tortured her mentor and seen the burning pits of Hell itself. Somehow, none of it had prepared him for listening to a Kroyak demon singing 'Jumping Jack Flash'. Singing being used in the loosest sense of the word. 

The demon was gamely honking its way through the song and not altogether poorly when you considered that it didn't have what could be called a working mouth. Otherwise, Angel suspected that the thinning crowd would consist of one vampire and one half-demon, possibly the bartender. The owner of this bar would probably make a fortune selling earplugs at the door. 

Angel took a sip from his drink, barely enough to taste the liquor. He'd been nursing this same glass since they got there a few hours ago and it was just barely half-full. The other side of the table was littered with smaller glasses, empty of the double shots that had been in each one. It barely seemed to have affected Doyle. He was sitting quietly, watching the Kroyak like this was a particularly good off-Broadway play.

The rest of the patrons were watching with varying degrees of disinterest/polite attention. Angel gamely tried not to notice the various demons around them; at least half he would have killed if he'd bumped into them on the street. There was something surreal and disturbing about just sitting here with them drinking their various liquors and other fluids. He grimaced, squeezing the glass in his hand until he felt it start to tremor on the breaking point. Or not maybe not so surreal. More like a memory from the past century, buying a drink for a pretty girl and leading her away to a darker corner.

A particularly sour note had Angel rubbing his temples, trying to look at Doyle without seeming to look at him. They'd barely spoken since Doyle had left the night before, his clothes clinging to him and his hair still dripping from the shower. He'd walked to the elevator steadily enough and just before he closed the door, he'd looked up, his pale face all dark hair and eyes. Then he was gone, without saying a word.

Angel wondered if it had made it hard to come back tonight. He'd been expecting Doyle, of course he had, had spent the entire day trying to think of something to say. Something reasonable and gentle, something that would help Doyle stay calm until the figured out what they could do about this. Something that wouldn't draw attention to the fact that Angel got hard any time he remembered what'd they'd done. Insane hormones aside, they couldn't keep on like this. 

It was this strained silence that was the worst of it, hurting him more than he would have considered. When he'd first come to LA, Angel hadn't realized how lonely he had been, how desperate for company before Doyle had put in his unexpected appearance. Somewhere between his easy smile and his laidback attitude, he'd become a friend. More than any amount of sex, no matter what his body thought about it, he wanted his friend back, and the thought that this bizarre aberration in their relationship had ruined their friendship didn't bear thinking about.

This whole situation was making his head ache worse than the singing. 

Doyle was getting a fresh drink from the waitress, another glass brimming with whiskey, and Angel made a mental note to ask her about the tab. The very least he could do was pay the bill, even though it looked like Doyle wasn't a very cheap date. His mind shied from the word 'date' and went back to the matter at hand; staring at Doyle without letting him know about it. It wasn't that difficult. Doyle was slouched back in his chair, drink in hand, and he never looked away from the stage. Now it was a Y'rrk demon, singing a decent version of 'Proud Mary', her damp proboscis curling up and down to the beat.

He wondered idly where Doyle found those shirts he always wore. Tonight he was wearing the one he'd had one when they'd met, brilliantly red to Angel's eyes and it drew him automatically in the most primal of ways. Strange how he knew in his head vampires were drawn to bright colors and yet, knowing it didn't make it easier to resist. His eyes always strayed back to that shirt, the mesmerizing pull of it. 

Doyle seemed to have a never ending collection of those bright, ugly shirts. Maybe it was just part of his destiny to follow strange men with a poor sense of fashion. Then again, he'd never had to sleep with Whistler.

A hand appeared on the back of Doyle's chair and Angel stiffened, resisting the urge to remove it physically. Doyle had told him before they got here, his voice stilted and his eyes down, that there was someone at this bar who might be able to give them some insight on the situation. They probably wouldn't be as willing to help if Angel removed their arm. The arm in question was attached to a demon of a type Angel didn't recognize, green with red eyes and in a suit that made Doyle's clothes look sedate in comparison. He smiled down at Doyle, swirling the sweet-scented drink in his other hand. "I was wondering when we'd see you again. You didn't stay for the encore last time."

Even after their long wait, Doyle didn't seem eager to chat. He kept his eyes on his drink, downing the last of it before he managed, "What, you didn't know I'd be back?"

The demon laughed lightly. "Well, someone's in a mood tonight, aren't we." He shook his head and moved to sit across from them, lounging in the chair easily. Setting his drink aside, he reached out took Doyle's hand in both of his own, squeezing gently. Angel ground his teeth and looked away. Instincts, he told himself. Vampires were notoriously fickle about sharing and his demon seemed to think Doyle was his. Better to tame it back now before it started wanting him to go shopping for matching bloodstained his and his towels. 

Their host's expression was filled with a worrying amount of sympathy. "Doyle, honey, shamrock, much as I appreciate how good you are for business," he circled a finger over the rim of one of the numerous glasses and a wavering note rang out. "You're wasting your time."

"Can't tell me what I need to know," Doyle said tiredly. He looked somehow smaller, hunching into himself and it was difficult not to touch, to soothe. Angel resisted the urge, uncertain as to how Doyle would take it and realized that before all this he never would have hesitated. It made the ache in his chest sharpen. 

"Of course I can, but I'm not the only one who's taken a sip from the foretelling pool. Sweetie, you already know what I'm going to say." The demon's eyes were surprisingly gentle and met Doyle's steadily. "You just don't want to hear me say it."

Doyle's mouth tightened and he pulled his hand free to stumble off in the direction of the bar. Angel started to go after him but a hand on his arm gave him pause, gesturing for him to stay sitting. Slowly, Angel lowered himself back into his chair. The demon sighed and shook his head. "Sweet kid, but once he gets that temper up." He clicked his tongue in dismay. "Well, big guy, it doesn't look like he wants to dish to you."

"What do you mean?"

The demon gave him a wry smile. "If he'd told you everything, do you really think you'd be here right now?"

Fair enough. "So can you tell me what's going on?"

"I could. For a song." Angel looked at him blankly and he rolled his eyes, gesturing to a waitress, "Dee, get me a refill and I'll be yours for life. Look, here's the way it works," he explained patiently. "You get up on stage and sing me a little tune, and I give you a little insider information on your problem."

There wasn't a description for the terror that idea filled him with. He'd almost rather spent five minutes in a tanning bed because at least then the pain would end quickly if a little dusty. Something niggled in his memory, the demon's perplexing conversation with Doyle. "But you said Doyle already knows what's going on. I could just wait for him to tell me."

The host laughed. "Got me there big guy. I was wondering if you'd catch it. Tell you what, I'm getting to like you, so instead of making you wait for short, dark, and pissed over there, I'll fill you in. The Powers are afraid you might get distracted by a pretty face while you're busy with the hero bit, so they decided to give you and Doyle something to do. To keep you," he coughed delicately. "Occupied."

"That's ridiculous," Angel sputtered. Wonderful, now he had cosmic forces governing his relationships as well as his life in general. He wondered if he'd be better off leaving out an organizer for them to fill at their leisure. He leaned closer, whispering fiercely, "I don't have any plans on getting involved with anyone. I help people and I read books. I don't date."

"And I'm sure your last relationship went exactly as you planned it," the demon replied dryly. He raised his hands defensively when Angel would have burst out a reply. "Calm down, lover, I don't know a bit about it but I've been at this gig a little while now. You don't get to peek at the various auras of worlds without realizing that happily ever after is only good in Hollywood. And this is LA, honey." 

He sighed deeply and looked up at the stage, eyes resting briefly on the latest singer. "We're going to have to speed things up a bit. To shorten an already long story, they started to send the visions to your walking satellite dish over there to get the two of you between the sheets."

"But why Doyle? Neither of us are...gay." He stumbled over the word and was glad he couldn't blush.

The demon shrugged. "I can only give you the condiments; I can't make the whole enchilada for you. I can tell you this," His voice became one of apologetic sympathy. "If you two don't keep doing the horizontal mambo, the visions will keep coming." Rising, the demon patted Angel on one shoulder before adding, "Good luck, and stop by again."

Angel sat there for a little longer, listening to the last chorus of 'Crimson and Clover.' Then he stood up and went to look for his friend. 

He was easy enough to find, slouched against the bar with a drink in his hand. For the first time that night, there was still liquor in it, and Doyle was twisting it in his hands, watching the tiny waves against the sides of the glass. The seat next to him wasn't empty but the vampire sitting in it vacated quickly when Angel looked at him. He sat down next to Doyle and watched him toy with the glass, and couldn't think of anything to say.

He settled on a banal, "Are you all right?", wincing at how weak it sounded.

"Am I all right?" Doyle laughed, the sound hard and bitter. "Am I all right. You know, I don't believe I am all right, and do you wanna hear why?" He slammed the glass down on the bar, a wash of liquid spilling unnoticed over his hand. "Because I love women," he said fiercely. "Small ones and big ones and anythin' in between! I love tits and strip clubs but because the Powers That Fucking Be seem to think it's for the  _best_ ," he spat. "I have to spend my nights bending over for you, playing drop the soap!"

Doyle looked around, suddenly noticing the entire bar was silent and staring at him. "What?" he snarled, "None of you have problems?" He snatched his coat off the bar and stormed off towards the door, demons parting the way in front of him like water.

Angel wished very, very much that changing into a bat had really been part of the vampire package. He managed a weak smile for the demons still staring at him and after a moment, the music slowly wavered back into existence. Picking up the abandoned glass, he tossed back the rest of Doyle's drink, choking briefly on the cheap scotch. 

"Can I get another?" he called to the bartender. She shuffled over to him, her one eye glistening and wary, and set the bottle on the counter. 

"Keep it."

 

* * *

He was surprised to find Doyle sitting in his living room when he got home, although perhaps he shouldn't have been. The slightly abused sofa was back in it's normal spot, scrubbed fresh with Resolve. Doyle was sitting in one of the side chairs, his head tilted back so he could stare unblinking at the ceiling.

Angel walked past him and hung up his coat. He was trying not to linger at it, hating this unbearable awkwardness. Back in the living room, he sat in the chair across from Doyle's because he always seemed to loom when he was standing. 

"I thought you went home," Angel said finally, quietly. 

Doyle made a sound that might have been a tired laugh. "Why bother? We both know I'd be back. Least this way I don't need to find another parking space." He traced a slow pattern on the leather arm of the chair with the tip of a finger, dreamy and slow. "He told you, didn't he."

Angel didn't see any point in denying it. "Yeah."

"Yeah," Doyle breathed slowly. "Saw him the other night and I knew he knew, I just--" He closed his eyes and shook his head. 

"Look," Angel raked a hand through his hair, tearing through gel-crisp tangles. "Shouldn't we make the best of this? I mean, I'm not really looking forward to having to do this every night for however long they expect us to do it, but--" 

Doyle cut him off with a laugh, and it was like the creaking of branches, rattling with ice. "No? You're the one who gets to take a vacation up the back road every night."

He shouldn't have been so shocked, hurt, even as it made guilt blossom in him, because hadn't he enjoyed it, wanted it again..."I'm not any more comfortable with this than you are," Angel said, harsher than he'd intended. "But I don't understand why you're so...this isn't my fault, Doyle. What do you want me to do?" Doyle just stared at him, something like hate in his eyes and, God, that hurt, and how was  _this_  supposed to keep him from being distracted from his mission. "You want to come here and make me rape you every night, is that it?"

"Make you rape me. I like that." There was a flicker of red in Doyle's eyes, a reminder of his demon ancestry and for a minute Angel thought Doyle was going to attack him. Wished he would, wished they could just do it and get it over with. He'd always been better at battling with his hands than with words. But Doyle wasn't finished, too much pain from the past week boiling into his words. "It's not your fault? Bullshit to that, if you're not the star of this fucking movie then who is? It's sure not me. You're the hero, babe," he sneered. "You're the one who's special. I'm just the little sidekick fucktoy."

It drew the rising anger out of him like a puncture wound, leaving him empty and tired, and Angel looked away, pressed a shaking hand to his forehead. A soft touch startled him and he looked up to see Doyle standing in front him. His eyes were bloodshot, the red in them this time from simple exhaustion and humanity. He looked lost and this was the Francis in him, so rarely seen, the one who looked barely old enough to legally buy beer, the schoolteacher whose life took a turn. He pulled his hand from Angel's arm and shoved both hands into his pockets, his eyes never leaving Angel's.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I had no right to say that." Angel was reminded of the first time he'd met Doyle, his easy honesty so long as it was nothing to do with himself. 

"Yes, you did. You're right, you are here because of me."

Doyle snorted and rolled his eyes, slouching back into his chair. "Yeah, maybe, but not directly, like. I doubt you yelled to the heavens that you wanted a half-demon to make squooshing noises with at night." Doyle shot him a look of amused doubtfulness. "Did you?"

Angel smiled, a little. "No, I think I'd remember that." They sat in silence, more comfortable than not and Angel felt some of his tension easing, seeping out of him slowly and taking the beginnings of his headache with it. It finally occurred to him to ask a question he'd wondered about before. "How long have you been having these visions?" 

Doyle didn't answer for a long time and Angel was beginning to think he'd fallen asleep when finally, "I had the first one just after we met. Wasn't so bad then. I'd get one every few weeks, brush it off. This last week though..." he shuddered silently. 

The soft call of his pain pulled Angel to his feet and he moved slowly, sliding across the floor until he was kneeling at Doyle's feet. His eyes were unreadable but he didn't flinch when Angel laid tentative hands on his knees. He put his own hands over them and they moved restlessly, uncertain as to whether they were pushing away or not.

"Atonements a tough thing," Doyle said with weak humor. "But I never expected I'd be putting gay half-demon seer on my resume, you know?"

"You're not gay."

"No?" he shook his head. "No, I know. It's just...I've been getting better at all this, what with living in California and all but where I grew up if there was even a hint that you were getting pelvic with another guy--"

"Doyle, no one has to know about this."

"'cepting all the demons that do." He brightened. "But not Cordy, right?"

"Not Cordy," Angel agreed, watching the flex of Doyle's throat as he swallowed. His lips were chapped and dry, and his tongue flicked out to wet them as Angel leaned in. 

Doyle flinched, pulling back. "No, I can't...not..."

No kissing, all right, then. Instead, he laid his head on Doyle's chest, listening to the speeding flutter of his heart. His shirt stank of cigarettes and whiskey and sweat, of reality, no sweetly perfumed flesh here and he pressed a kiss against it, felt the startlement in the body beneath him. Didn't care. 

Silence was as good as permission and it was easy to flick open all the buttons, careful not to tear the shirt that he was growing fonder of every time he saw it. Red and red, parted to show white flesh beneath it and here was better, crisp hair against his chin. Much better, all the same smells but more underneath it. He could taste the first faint flickers of lust and that was  _good_. 

He felt Doyle inhale sharply as he moved on to the fly of his pants, easing down the zipper but still no protest. He had to trust Doyle to tell him to stop if he didn't want something, fast losing his own capacity to do so. The want that had been hammering at the bars within him was howling now in the back of his head, demanding that he do it, do something, do it, do it, doit.

Easy to slip his hands into the opening of Doyle's pants, felt him gasp at the coolness against his own hot skin. "Have you done anything like this before?" he murmured, already knowing the answer, wanting to hear it anyway.

"Angel," Doyle laughed weakly. "I hadn't done more than stand on the same carpet as another man before we started up."

"Mmmhmmm," Angel mumbled, pressing his face against Doyle's belly. He hadn't done much more than that, certainly not this, but the smell had been tempting him for days, since before he known what it was. He pushed Doyle's pants down a little more, felt him lift up a bit and try to help. 

Angel let his eyes drift shut as he leaned in, let Doyle's cock paint a line of scalding wetness down his cheek as he rubbed softly against it. He could smell the blood, feel the pulse of it and was barely tempted. He'd been craving a taste of something else, laid the flat of his tongue against soft, soft skin and finally got it. 

Doyle made a sound that he ignored, lost in the explosion of flavor across his tongue, and he wanted more. Took it deeper, let it glide slowly into his mouth. Strong flavor, rasping over his tongue and he sucked automatically, trying to get more. 

"Christ!" Doyle's knees jackknifed up on either side of his head, accidentally pulling him down hard, and Angel was briefly glad he couldn't choke. Sucking, right, he was a vampire, suction he could do. Apparently, Doyle agreed, strangling out a shout, his hands scrabbling to clench into Angel's hair. 

It was easy like this, with his eyes closed, and his hands clenched into fists, resting against Doyle's hips. Not holding him still just, holding, and he whimpered, actually whimpered a protest when Doyle pulled him off. 

"Come on," he whispered, not quite into Angel's mouth, and pulled him along. Until they were in the bedroom and he could push Doyle down into the blankets, on his stomach and they both made sounds there in the dark, the bed creaking with them and the light wavered over sweat-slick skin like candlelight as Angel came to the sound of his own name on someone else's lips, almost like a prayer.

 

* * *

Apparently, when he wasn't dropping into unconsciousness or running out the door, Doyle was fairly chatty after sex. Angel didn't mind, lazily stroking his back and listening to Doyle talk. About his hometown, the dog he'd had when he was twelve, coming to the states; about what it was like to teach young children their letters and numbers; about the demons they'd fought the week before; about the new movie he'd been meaning to see, with that actress whose name Angel didn't recognize. A literal gush of information that made him smile and just listen, answering the occasional query. 

One question made him pause. "Have you ever done this before?" Curiously.

"What, have sex with someone by the order of otherworldly beings?" he asked dryly. "Not as often as you'd think."

He jumped when Doyle bit him, actually sank his teeth into Angel's chest. It made his cock leap to attention with embarrassing eagerness and Angel shifted so the sheet hid it better. It was one thing to have sex once a night on demand; asking for seconds was pushing it. 

"I meant, have you ever been involved with another guy." Doyle was looking at him with great interest, apparently unperturbed by the thought that Angel might have been sleeping around with most of the men in Europe back in the day.

"Why is it that everyone thinks that about vampires these days?" Angel mused aloud to the ceiling. "Nobody used to ask me that." He frowned. "Of course, I didn't talk to people so much back then as--"

"Right, right, the good old bad days," Doyle interrupted, rolling his eyes. He shifted up so he was lying on Angel's chest, resting his chin on his folded hands. "Does that mean no?"

Angel shifted uncomfortably. "I may have, um, experimented a time or two," he admitted. "There was this one time with Spike." He yelped when Doyle bit him again, harder.

"Details would be a no," he said with a shudder. "I was just curious."

"Why?" Angel asked. "Have you?" Softly mocking because Doyle had answered this question once and he blinked in surprise when the answer changed.

"No more than a kiss, and that was because...never mind," Doyle muttered. Reluctantly intrigued, Angel lifted his head to look at Doyle better. He was blushing hotly. 

"Because why?"

"I was trying not to come here, all right? Thought maybe if I, you know, got the rocks off with another guy it would help." He shrugged a little, ducking his head. "Changed my mind before I went through with it though."

"Your lip," Angel said slowly, remembering. "He hit you."

"Yeah, got me a good one," Doyle said ruefully. "But never fear, I fell down and had a ruddy awful vision and that scared the bejesus out of him. Took off and left me there and--hey, easy, man!"

With a bit of effort, Angel managed to force his demon face back. Doyle was looking at him with alarm, not quite as comfortable to be lying naked with a vampire as he had been a few minutes ago.

It hadn't been intentional, just thinking of some bastard punching Doyle, leaving him there convulsing on the ground while he gasped in pain. He could see it clearly for a moment, the sweat trailing down Doyle's face as he shook and that other man, the unknown one turning his back and running. Maybe afraid he'd done the damage and so he'd left him there to possibly die while he saved his own skin. 

He was losing it again and Doyle was watching him with increasing nervousness, looking like he was half a minute from scrambling into his pants and out the door. Angel gave him what he hoped was an apologetic look and after a moment, he crawled back. Angel pulled him against his chest and ran a soothing hand down his back, stroking him until he relaxed, his breathing even and deep. He thought Doyle was asleep until he spoke again, his breath warm on Angel's skin.

"Cordy was right," he said sleepily.

"You're in my bed thinking about Cordelia?" Angel asked, amused.

"Mmmhmm. Don't worry, you're too tall for role playing. Said you were cuddly for a vampire, didn't she? She was right; you've been petting me like a hound dog for twenty minutes." Embarrassed, Angel started to pull away. "Didn't say you should stop," he yawned. A few minutes later, Angel knew he was asleep. It didn't take long for him to follow, drowsing slowly as he stroked Doyle's back and simply enjoyed having someone who cared, at least a little, so close to him. 

  
 

* * *

 

  
 **  
Chapter Four  
  
**

For the inexperienced eye, it was difficult to tell the difference between brooding and boredom. Both had the same expression, gazing into the faraway, and the same posture, although the brief game of solo paperclip football was probably a clue. Since the brief but intense debate on whether a pencil could be used as a toy was completely internal, most people would never see the difference.

In the end, it was determined that it was too close to a stake for true enjoyment. 

Doyle had been gone that morning when he woke but Angel wasn't worried; he'd be back eventually and then Angel could try the new recipe he'd found yesterday in the newspaper. He seemed to recall being quite fond of scones when he'd been alive, although he wasn't entirely sure. Spending a few centuries not eating did make cooking a little more complex. He was completely absorbed in the puzzle of the scone recipe, not brooding, although again, most people would never guess the difference.

And then there was Cordelia, who saw neither as she burst into the office. "Angel! I need you to--get off the floor? What are you doing down there?"

He didn't dignify it with a response, just righted his chair and sat back down. Cordelia, never one to spare the dignity of others, raised an eyebrow at him. "Spider senses offline today?

"I thought you guys liked to compare me to Batman."

"Excuse me if my geekatude isn't tuned to the right station for you. Now, I need you to do something for me." She straightened up and cleared her throat, her cue for 'paying attention mode'. Angel tried to look interested, though he suspected that interested was yet another expression of his that looked rather like the others. Just as well if she couldn't tell the difference between interest and wariness. If this was another of her auditions it paid, with interest, to be prepared.

Even so, the sight of her throwing herself back against the doorjamb, moaning and writhing, rubbing her hands over her hips and thighs, was unexpected. She finished with a loud, moaning chorus of, "Yes, yes, yes!" throwing her head back as she slid down to the floor.

Angel stared.

Cordelia bounced to her feet and looked expectant. "Well, what did you think?"

"I--" Angel couldn't seem to close his mouth enough to form a coherent answer. Was it normal for women to test out their fake orgasm skills with their guy friends before--he didn't even want to think about it. That was it, this past week had been entirely too strange. There must have been a spell and he had fallen into an alternate Hell universe where everything had to do with sex. 

It was a step up from the last Hell he'd visited, he had to admit.

"Angel! I'm trying out for the new Herbal Essences commercial today," Cordelia told him impatiently. 

Of course she was. "And that is?"

"Shampoo?! God, don't you ever watch TV? I've got a great chance for this one, look at this." She swung her head with practiced ease so that her hair fell in a sweeping cascade over one shoulder. "I've got the perfect hair for it. Oh, God!" She looked suddenly horrified. "Do you think if you get the spot, you actually have to _use_  the shampoo?"

"Do people really think all vampires are bisexual?" He hadn't meant to ask that. Angel was very sure of it. He'd meant to nod politely whenever Cordelia required it and hope that she never needed more than a yes or no answer, and to make a mental note to never try Herbal Essence shampoo. He certainly never meant to ask Cordelia anything that would add to the weird sex aura that had been hanging around the office, even if the question had been sitting in the back of his mind since the night before.

She stared at him and Angel was somewhat bemused to see he'd actually managed to shock her. In all too brief a time, she recovered enough to say, "You're not?"

"Cordelia!" Current issues aside, he didn't really think he seemed all that bisexual. How did bisexual people seem, anyway?

"Well, you always dress so well and your hair! I mean, if you were rich, sure you'd look that good but considering you don't have a reflection, we're talking serious effort. Plus, there's that whole Interview with a Vampire thing."

"The what?" he asked, bewildered. 

"And you know that Louis and Lestat were so doing it. Straight men so do not suck on the necks of other straight men even if it is for a snack."

Angel stared at her.

"You!" She stabbed an immaculately-painted incriminating finger at him. "You were going to eat that guy on the swim team before."

He made a face. "I remember that, he tasted like spoiled anchovies."

"Okay, being friends with a vampire has made me understand that on occasion we will talk about repulsive things. You can talk about drinking blood but the moment you start telling me about the bouquet, we are so finished. Oh, and you dressed more like an eighties hair band when you were evil, so that right there gives you the whole, 'oooh, I'll sleep with anything' vibe."

Like a poorly dressed savior from embarrassing conversations, Doyle wandered into the office, tossing his coat on the chair inside the door. He looked well rested and freshly showered, and smiled easily at them both as he poured a cup of the dubious coffee. Angel resisted the urge to knock it out of his hands before he could poison himself with it once again. He really did need to make sure Cordelia knew CPR. Doyle raised the styrofoam cup in a sort of mock toast. "Hey, all."

It was a shame that Cordelia didn't recognize a savior when she saw one. "Doyle, do you think all vampires are bisexual?" Cordelia asked seriously as he took a drink.

Doyle promptly inhaled his first sip. For the first moment, he couldn't even cough, struggling to inhale enough air to expel the caffeinated strangler. He was an alarming shade of red when he finally got the first cough out and he fumbled to set the cup on the small table before he dropped it, splashing hot liquid over the back of his hand. Angel lunged forward and rescued it before it could do any more damage, shoving it back on the counter.

"Cordy, get him a glass of water," Angel ordered, relieved when she didn't argue. 

Doyle was wheezing more than coughing, going from red to more of a maroon shade as he tried to suck in a breath. Angel hovered next to him anxiously, finally giving him a firm slap on the back that nearly sent him to the floor. With a barely managed glare, Doyle backed away, still coughing, holding out his burned hand to keep Angel back.

"Water!" Cordy darted in between them and thrust the glass at Doyle, sending a shower down the front of his clothes. He snatched the glass away and downed it, and finally the coughing fit dwindled into pained breathing. Doyle wiped sweat from his forehead with a shaky hand, glaring at them both.

"Next time I'm choking to death?" he rasped. "Let me die, yeah?"

Angel looked away, embarrassed. "Right."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Cordelia dismissed it with the wave of a hand. "Well, what do you think?"

"What do I think what?"

She rolled her eyes. "It nearly killed you and you don't remember? Are all vampires bisexual, duh?"

"Oh." He looked uncomfortable and glanced at Angel, who tried for an innocent look. If he wasn't careful, he was going to go through his entire repertoire of expressions in one day. "I never much thought about it. Mostly they just turn to dust when we meet 'em, we don't really chat often." His expression turned thoughtful. "I did see Interview with a Vampire, though."

"Oooh, and Louis and Lestat were sooo doing it!"

"No, I thought it was Louis and the other fella, um, the Antonio Banderas guy."

"Of course they were, but Louis and Lestat did it first."

"Is this a movie?" Angel interrupted, loudly.

Cordelia glanced at him. "Actually, it's a book but they made it a movie."

"Wonderful. Having lived as a vampire and around other vampires does give me a little perspective on this so maybe you should, I don't know. Ask me?"

"You're the one who asked me!" Cordy snorted, flopping into the chair in front of the desk. 

"I asked if you thought they were bisexual, not if they were."

"Well, are they?"

"No!"

"Oh. Cause I always thought that Spike was sort of..."

Angel squirmed. "Spike is sort of--"

"And Drusilla was creepy but she liked eating girls."

"Dru's different, she--"

"And you, what about you?"

"Me?"

"Even Doyle said he thought you were attractive."

"Now wait a second," Doyle sputtered, not at all pleased to be brought back into the conversation.

"Are you bisexual?" Cordelia asked with great interest. 

"I--" The phone rang and cut him off. Cordy squealed and ran to answer it. Angel buried his face in his arms and thanked the Powers That Be for small favors. He peeked out over his arms to see Doyle standing in front of his desk, arms crossed over his chest and looking rather pissed.

"This is your way of not telling Cordelia?" he hissed, shooting a wary look at the outer office where Cordy was chatting with what sounded like one of her Cordettes.

"It was an accident?" His voice was muffled into his sweater.

Doyle blew out a loud breath, gave his cup a coffee a disgusted look before tossing it in the trash. "Could we not have any more accidents, please?"

"Right." Angel remembered something and lifted his head to look at Doyle with a faint grin. "You think I'm attractive?"

It was almost made the last five minutes worth living to see the flush of embarrassment sweep over Doyle's face. "That was...er...sorry I ran out on you this morning," he said hurriedly, fingering the front of his damp shirt. This one had a sort of beige paisley design that was a kind of ugly not normally seen in the light of day. Not that Angel knew much about that. "But I figured even Cordelia would eventually notice I'm wearing the same clothes day after day."

"If it has to do with clothes, she is sure to notice," Angel agreed, still looking at Doyle's shirt and wondered about the red one. He didn't recall him wearing it much before, how often did Doyle circulate through his shirts? Just the bright red against such pale skin, the right contrast of color to his eyes, so enticing--Christ, was he sitting here mooning over one of Doyle's shirts?

They really needed a client. 

Doyle was slouched back in his chair with his eyes closed but he opened one a slit when Angel stood up to glance outside the door. Cordelia was still chatting, her back to them and, somewhat self-consciously, Angel shut the door. Now he had Doyle's full attention, suspicious as it was.

This was infinitely worse than fighting any kind of demons, even the slimey ones. "How did you sleep last night," Angel blurted, trying to keep his voice low. Was he even allowed to ask here in the office? They'd never discussed any rules, hadn't discussed much of anything really. Just a mostly unspoken agreement to go along with the visions.

But how could they not talk about it? Angel wasn't sure he could do that, not when he couldn't even stop thinking about it. He'd scented Doyle a bare second before he'd walked in the door, the mixture of shampoo and deodorant so oddly familiar, though Angel couldn't remember when he'd learned it. If Doyle wanted to forget during the day, Angel could never fault him for it, but he wasn't sure he could do the same.

"Slept like a baby," Doyle said easily, shattering all his worries with a single sentence. "Not a peep of a vision. In fact," Doyle stretched and his joints popped faintly. "I think I slept better last night than I have since I started having visions. What kind of mattress do you have?"

"A Serta, it came with the bed frame. Do you think the visions mean a, um," Angel suddenly found the tiles floor very interesting, "An every night thing or just--"

"I don't know," Doyle looked at him steadily. "If you want to test it--"

"No," Angel said hurriedly. "I just--I just don't want to make this harder than it already is." He held his hands out in a vague gesture of helplessness. 

"Doubt you could. Look, I know I've been a prick about this--shut it, and let me talk," he said when Angel would have protested. "But I really do appreciate that you're helping. You could have said no."

 _No, I couldn't._  Angel would never say it to him, never wanted to see the brightness of his eyes dimmed with guilt that he knew Doyle would feel. It was all right, he could do this and he'd never tell Doyle how badly he wanted to push him over this desk right now and see those same eyes shining so briefly with lust before they closed tightly like they always did, just before he came.

Instead, Angel kept his gaze on the floor and asked, softly, "What do you see when you have a vision?"

"Aside from my brain turning inside out?" Doyle tried to laugh and it faded into a sigh. He crossed his arms over his chest as if he felt a chill. 

"The first time I had one, I thought I was dying," Doyle said softly. "Some kind of stroke, maybe..." he trailed off with a shrug that held a wealth of some unknown emotion and Angel could almost seem him pulling inward, hiding something as he settled for partial truth. "I see pictures, flickering like some kind of strobe light but it's more than that. I don't see the names, you know, the addresses, the information. I just  _know_ , like it all tumbled into my head like candy into an empty piñata. I hate it, it just hurts so much but sometimes, for just a second it's like--like touching something perfect." His voice shook and Doyle raised a trembling hand to his head. "But it hurts, it...hurts...hurts!"

His eyes widened, glazed over as they looked at something Angel could never see. Every time he saw this, he could only watch uselessly and hold Doyle, careful to keep him from hurting himself, and he hated it, that as much as he tried to help he was partly responsible for causing this very pain. 

"Some kind of demon," Doyle gasped, "I couldn't see much about 'em, just robes and this wicked sharp knife. They're making a sacrifice for something and they have a little gal and her mom all ready for the first cut."

"Did you see where?" Angel asked urgently.

"Yeah, I got the crossroads but we got more problems than that. Angel, this ritual is on the roof of some building."

"The roof?" 

"In the day." That would hinder things a little, unless he didn't mind fighting and bursting into flames at the same time. Doyle gave him a weak smile and slapped him on the back. "Don't worry, we'll think of something."

He snatched his jacket off the chair and followed Angel out into the main office, muttering under his breath. "Never thought I'd be happy to have just a plain vision."

 

* * *

 

 **  
Chapter Five    
**

 

"Don't know why you're complaining. It worked, didn't it."

Angel didn't answer him as he stepped carefully out of the lift. He opened the refrigerator and chose one plastic-cased packet of blood at random, holding it with clumsy, numb fingers. They could barely grasp it and he finally had to use both hands to set it on the counter. 

"Yeah, there were a few problems here and there," Doyle went on. Angel could hear him rummaging for the first aid kit, useless bandages that he would accept in silence. He would heal with or without sterile bits of cotton to hold him together. Mostly they were to spare his clothing and furniture from any more bloodstains than they already had. There was the sound of plastic being stripped away, waxed strips of paper peeled from sticky tape as Doyle bound up his own wounds. "But we did save the ladies."

Again, both hands to get a mug from the cupboard, holding it between his wrists, his outstretched fingers curved out of the way. Vampires couldn't blister or peel but they made up for it with skin that charred as easily as rice paper set aflame. He'd felt that before, once, caught out in the daylight for far too long and the ruined skin had peeled away in grotesque sheets, leaving pink and shiny flesh beneath it that was too sensitive for even a touch. This was nothing so bad as that, only the lightest of burns but his hands were still clumsy and dumb, his fingers stiffened with new skin. Doyle's burns were worse and his skin did blister into little puffed beads on his hands. 

He'd seen it in the stairwell off the roof, just out of the sunlight after Doyle had tried stupidly to beat out the flames with his own bare hands. The woman he'd saved stumbled away down the stairs, clutching her child to her chest, too panicked to care much about her blazing rescuer. It was Doyle's coat that had finally saved them both, some bit of self-preservation that made him think to whip it off and smother the fire. His own coat was a complete loss and they'd left it in the stairwell. The rest of his clothes had fared somewhat better and his hands, bare and unprotected, had taken the worst of the damage. Next time he'd remember gloves. He wondered if there was burn ointment in the kit and made a mental note to check in case Doyle needed it.

God, he was tired. 

The ceramic cup between his wrists was slick in his awkward grasp and it was with nothing more than weary expectation that he felt it slip and tumble to the floor. 

Doyle caught it easily, half-kneeling in an oddly graceful little movement as he came in from behind him. He set it absently on the counter before taking away the blood packet and slitting it open with the kitchen shears. His fingers were circled with band-aids, the false flesh tone of them garish against his paler skin. "I was right fond of this shirt though," he said, and looked mournfully at the scorched front. At that point it was only being held together by the buttons. The demise of his shirt was probably the only good thing that had happened today.

"I was pretty fond of my coat, too," Angel murmured. He watched as Doyle expertly tipped the blood into the mug and set it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms awkwardly so his hands rested lightly on top, and they both watched it circle slowly as it heated.

"Let's say we do a little practice with the beach umbrella," Doyle was saying, "before we try that again, yeah?"

"Yeah," Angel said vaguely. He barely heard him. The warm blood-smell was starting to rise in the air and even though it was animal blood, his mouth watered for the taste of it. That first burst of flavor across his tongue, fouled as it was with the taint of the beast but unbearably tempting, his drug though not one of his choice. He started to reach for the microwave door as it beeped but Doyle beat him to it, hissed softly at the heat as he picked up the mug and then held it out to Angel. He reached for it automatically and frowned as Doyle held it away. 

"You'd just drop it anyway," he pointed out reasonably, and he held it out again, tipping it enough that the dark fluid thinned against the side, showing a hint of its true crimson tone.

It wasn't shame that filled him as he leaned in and let Doyle tip the blood into his mouth. Nothing like shame, more like desperation, the viscous flow over his tongue dimming even that as he drank, trying not to reach up and grab Doyle's wrist to keep him there. Humiliation came later, licking blood from his lips and knowing he was hunching in to reach the cup that Doyle still held, his eyes yellowed and his demon revealed. 

Doyle didn't flinch from him, not physically, but he was looking away, eyes on the counter while Angel fed, quickly. The blood would thicken as it cooled, like sludge against his tongue and he hated that more than anything. It made it too easy to remember that it never happened when you took it from the source. 

His concentrated disinterest was less than a relief but better than the alternative. Some people found vampires fascinating, watched eagerly as they sipped their life from the lives of others. The heady danger of it, the possibility of death that they never truly believed would be theirs. It tiresome cliché that most vampires bored with quickly, preferring the final climax of death rather than toying with it to entertain a human who was nothing more than food.

But Doyle wasn't human and didn't seem interested in feeding habits of vampires, or any demon that wasn't trying to kill them for that matter. Even through it all, he was still so insistently human, if only to himself and Cordelia because nothing about him would ever let Angel forget the truth. 

Did he still see his demon self as an outsider, more of a dual personality than one true creature? A parasite of sorts that had stolen his life away from him and left him with the dregs. If so, Angel could sympathize.

Even humiliation didn't keep him from licking the rim of the cup, catching the last clinging stain of blood while Doyle wasn't watching him. He stepped back to signal he was done and Doyle rinsed the cup and set it in the sink before he started unbuttoning his shirt. 

The bloodhigh was still singing to him, a technicolor glory that was pushed along by whatever mystical means kept a dead body moving and speaking, and it was only that, he told himself, that made his cock stiffen so quickly as he watched Doyle strip off in the pallid light. 

"Mind if I take the first shower?" 

"Um?" It didn't even register until Doyle breezed past him, still in his trousers, and into the bathroom. The first juddery spurt of water as he turned it on, dimmed as Doyle stepped in and there was the snap of the shower curtain as he closed it.

Angel heard it all, still standing in the kitchen. For a moment he'd actually thought--it didn't matter what he'd thought, only that it hadn't been true. He took a shaky, useless breath and scrubbed a hand over his face roughly. It was the blood, had to be. He could still taste it on the back of his tongue, the tingle that signaled his hands were healing faster now and he could flex his fingers and did, tried not to think of what he'd almost did with them before Doyle had walked away.

They called it food because what other word was there for it, but it wasn't, vampires didn't eat food because they weren't alive. It could talk like a man and walk like one, but it didn't breathe like one or shit like one, didn't even bleed like one. Just paler, used liquid that passed for blood, after the demon had dredged whatever it was that it needed from it. Until then, it surged in him like opium and pulled that demon closer to the surface because while he was the one who drank the blood it was the demon who feasted. 

But not all demons were evil, not even most, and he wondered sometimes how a half-demon had a soul or something that passed for one. Or maybe he should wonder how a half-human kept his soul. He took a reluctant step closer to the bathroom where the door was mostly open. Through the rising steam and the clear shower curtain he could see Doyle, his face raised into the hot water and his hands well away from it, pressed against the tiles. 

Perfect, just like that, and Angel could slip in behind him so easily, hold him perfectly still, the water pouring down on them molten hot and the first push inside like a memory of Hell.

He reeled the thought in so hard he actually stumbled backward and bumped hard into the arm of the chair behind him, fumbling it around until he could sit. 

"Christ," he muttered aloud, and his guts felt like wet leaves. This was  _not_  helping things. 

He never called it Angelus, not in his own mind. It was always the demon; the darker half of himself that he had to admit was his own if he ever wanted to be absolved of its sins. It was not cognized, not verbally, but it could feel and what it felt was desire, bitter and hot, boiling out and over into Angel. Desire for Doyle who was so utterly available to him, if he only asked, if he didn't know how much Doyle would hate him for it, how much he'd hate himself for taking more than was absolutely necessary.

"How is this helping me stay focused?" he demanded to no one at all, not feeling half as foolish about it as he expected. He'd been better off with no sex at all and the risk of possibly being distracted than he was like this, waiting for the moment he lost control and just pushed Doyle over his desk in the office. Probably with Cordelia in the corner complaining that they were going to scare away the clients.

He had it under control when Doyle came out of the bathroom in just a towel, didn't even blink and if he got hard looking at the damp, exposed skin then it was all right. So long as he stayed in his chair and did not move.

"I forgot, I don't have anything else to wear." Doyle ran a sheepish hand through his dripping hair and grinned.

Angel gestured vaguely towards his bedroom and did not get up. "Help yourself." He rethought it as Doyle walked into the bedroom and he heard the closet door slide open. "Nothing leather!" 

A soft laugh was his only reply. 

There was a framed sketch on the wall opposite to him, one he had done himself, a still life of a young woman that he'd cribbed from another artist. She reminded him vaguely of his sister, whose face he could not remember at all and she was too long dead for more than a stirring of guilt. 

Something else then, maybe dinner if his hands were up to cooking or take-out if they weren't. He could drive over to the little Chinese place that Doyle liked so much and leave the top down to let the cool air run its fingers through his hair and when he got back it would be better, he would be better, calmer, and it would be all right. 

The slap of something against his chest startled him from his thoughts and he reached for it automatically, a slick plastic tube and it was followed by something else entirely. Doyle sliding into his lap, skin still damp and he smelled fresh and steamy from the shower. 

"You could've said something before I took a shower," Doyle complained softly into his ear and, God, he was here, right here in Angel's lap and naked, and he knew--

He wrapped his arms around Doyle and pulled him in tightly, licked that soft pulse-point at the base of his throat to feel him shiver. His own clothes were faintly charred and ruined, burned from his own skin touched by sunlight and he fumbled them open to get where he really wanted to be, pressed against bare skin.

Doyle gasped and shook, his face hidden against Angel's shoulder, maybe to hide his reluctance but part of him was as eager for this as Angel was, hot and hard in Angel's palm and Doyle was all sweet-smelling hair and pale skin. No taste of salt to him as Angel licked his way up the line of his throat, nothing so pallid as human and between them, they managed to fumble the tube open, bandaged fingers against colder, healing ones. 

Stroked Doyle open with slick fingers and it  _hurt_ , the clenching heat of his body against still-tender skin and Angel didn't care, nor about how awkward it was in this chair that wasn't made for two, not even with one sitting on the other. He gathered Doyle into his arms, positioned him and just pushed. 

"Ah, God," he moaned, helplessly, but God didn't reply, only left them alone in that rough chair while Angel muttered blasphemies about His only son. It would have been impossible for a human, nearly so for a vampire but he could move just enough, grinding his hips up as Doyle sobbed out a breath. Still so unbelievably tight, and he wondered how many times he could fuck Doyle before he finally loosened, that first almost-painful tightness ebbing away into something easier to slide into. Wondered if he'd get a chance to find out and hated that he'd even thought of it.

There were already bluish bruises on Doyle's hips from before, probably still there from the first time and fresh red marks were already appearing from Angel's grip, tightening and loosening infinitesimally as he rocked Doyle in his lap and listened to the soft sounds he made, harsh and rhythmic and they made his cock harden like stone. 

 _Why are you doing this to us_ , he wanted to cry, but all he could do was moan as he pulled Doyle down hard and made him cry out, the rush of scalding heat against his belly and the sudden, hard kiss of penetration as slick muscle went  _tight_  around him. The light behind his eyes tasted like electricity and orgasm left him drained and cold, the last warmth from the blood finally seeping away.

Barely time for Doyle to catch his breath when he stiffened suddenly, nails digging into Angel's shoulders as his eyes went wide, lost to whatever images were fluttering through his head. This was worse than a betrayal, this was an  _invasion_  and at that moment, he hated the Powers, whoever or whatever they were. He wanted to scream like a spoiled child at them for stealing Doyle away while he was still pulsing with their sex and going soft inside him.

But perhaps that was the point. A reminder that Doyle wasn't really his, after all.

It lasted not even a minute, Doyle's eyelids fluttering as he shook with it, collapsing finally into Angel's arms. He pulled away with startling quickness, snatching the towel from the floor and hiding what little he could of his body behind it before he sank down on the sofa and buried his face in his hands. 

"What did you see?" Angel asked softly. 

His voice was muffled by his hands. Between the shower and the sex, the band-aids ringing his fingers were already ruined, one torn almost completely off and hanging limply from one tab. But they didn't disguise the one word he said, barely loud enough to be heard and yet it echoed through Angel like a knife wound. 

"Buffy."

 

* * *

 

  
 **  
Chapter Six   
**

Doyle had refused to go home.

Angel's argument that he didn't need to come to Sunnydale had been very persistent and well thought out, covering all the major points with a flat, "You're not coming."

Unfortunately, Doyle's argument had been better. "Oh, right, and when they," he jerked a thumb upward, "Decide we haven't been tangoing enough, I'm the one they zap. Forget it."

It was the first time Angel had been argued down by another man wearing his clothes. They stopped at Doyle's apartment first because if his normal wardrobe was a little unusual, Angel's baggy sweats and a t-shirt were not an improvement. He'd insisted that Angel go up to the apartment with him, even into the bedroom while he quickly changed and threw a spare set of clothes into a bag, watching him suspiciously the entire time like he was afraid Angel would make a break for the door and leave him there.

Not that the idea didn't have some appeal but since Doyle knew how to drive, it was a moot point.

The ride had been in silence with Doyle curled in his seat, napping, and Angel listening to the Wednesday 80's flashback on KCAL. They pulled into a small, garishly neon motel outside of the city limits just after three and he left Doyle in the car while he paid for the room, keeping half an eye on his sleeping form through a large, dirty glass window. They weren't quite in Sunnydale but that didn't make it any safer to roam the streets at night.

He took the keycard from a bored-looking teenager with a rash of acne, whose eyes barely left the small TV screen on the back of the counter long enough to ring him up. Doyle hadn't so much as moved when he returned and there was a growing patch of dampness on his left shoulder where he was drooling in his sleep. Angel nudged the dry side gently, trying not to startle him. It had no effect and he tried it again, harder, to no avail. How was this man still alive? He could sleep through his own murder.

"Doyle," he whispered, then louder, "Doyle!"

"Hmmzat?" Came a drowsy murmur. "Ang'?"

Sleepy green eyes peered up at him, blinking rapidly. There was a wet trail on his cheek that Doyle rubbed at clumsily with the back of his hand and the sight of him, rumpled and sleepy, made Angel smile. The poor guy actually looked cute.

"Hey, we're here and you're not spending the night in the car because I'd like you to be alive in the morning, so you can either get out or I can carry you to the room. Your call."

Doyle was out of the car with almost vampiric speed and he glared at Angel, who wasn't bothering to hide a smirk. "I can walk, thanks," he said with icy dignity, and proceeded to do so for about ten feet, until he stopped and walked back. "Mind telling me the room number?"

Silently, Angel handed him the key card and retrieved their luggage before following him up to the second floor mezzanine. It took Doyle two tries to open the door, muttering under his breath the entire time and when he finally got it open, he stopped just inside the door so abruptly that Angel walked right into him, nearly sending them both to the floor. 

"What?" he frowned, pushing Doyle behind him automatically as he peered into the dark room. Just what they needed, this place was probably a distant cousin to the Bates motel. Inside it looked worse, neon giving way to avocado carpeting and lamps with velvety yellow shades stationed on either side of the bed. He wouldn't be surprised to find a painting of Elvis's last supper in the bathroom. Ugly, yes, but he didn't see anything amiss. "What's wrong?"

He heard Doyle swallow hard, "Well, it's just got the one, you know?"

One wha-one king-sized bed. He hadn't even thought about it when he paid for the room, "I'm sorry, I'll go back and--" Doyle waved him off.

"Nah, s'all right. I'm too damned tired to worry about it." True to his word, he shuffled in and sprawled out on the bed fully clothed. After a moment, one eye opened and looked at Angel, who was still standing by the open door. "You coming?"

Angel bit his tongue on what he nearly said. He really was tired if he was about to make dirty jokes, but they had been hijacked off here for a reason. Until he figured out what was going on, sleeping wouldn't be an option. "Look, why don't you just stay here? Sunnydale is a late night town and I should--"

"No, no, no, you don't!" Doyle sat up and looked at him with alarm. "You're not leaving me here while you go traipsing around town."

"We already took care of things tonight, you should be fine," Angel said sharply. He was not staying here when Buffy could be in danger. Anxiety was dancing a tango on his nerves and all he wanted to do was find out if she was all right. A vision about her in some kind of danger and he'd had to resist the urge to shake details from his unforthcoming seer. Cryptic visions from indifferent Powers; at least they'd been kind enough to send him a warning.

"You really think I only came because of the visions?" Doyle's quiet voice gave him pause, settled the itch to simply run to her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Angel with soft eyes that could see clearly through the darkness.

 _Didn't you_ , but that wasn't fair and Angel was relieved he realized it before he said it and made true hurt shine in those eyes. It made him remember that Doyle had been his friend first, before all the strangeness and false desire, before he'd ever learned the taste of his skin. Angel bit the inside of his cheek to forestall that thought before it coiled off in the wrong direction. Suddenly it was a comfort that Doyle was here with him. He didn't have to do this alone.

"I know you didn't," he said aloud and Doyle smiled. 

He bounced to his feet with more energy than Angel would have given him credit for. "So where're we off to, and please tell me they have food. My stomach's starting to think my mouth is on strike."

"I thought we'd stop and see Giles first." Angel set one of the bags on a small, worn table in the corner and opened it, rifling through the weapons until he found the stakes, always the weapon of choice for Sunnydale. He tossed one to Doyle who caught it and tucked it absently into his pocket. Someday he was going to convince Doyle it was wiser to have a stake on him at all times, even when they weren't expecting trouble. Trouble found them often enough as it was.

"The lady's Watcher? Good idea, we'll talk to him and he can warn her we're in town. Be less of a shock coming from him." 

Angel was shaking his head before Doyle even finished. "No. I don't want Buffy to know I'm here."

Doyle gave him an incredulous look. "Are you kidding me? That has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"Why?"

"Five reasons," Doyle ticked each one off on a finger, "One, you'd be lyin' to her. Two, you'd be making her friends lie to her. Three, someone'll slip up and she'll find out. And then we have a pissed slayer on our hands."

"That's four reasons."

"Five is me vacuuming you out of your nice car seats after she pops your cork. No way, you have to tell her."

"And if I do tell her, what then? She'd be distracted, she could get hurt."

This time Doyle's smile was unpleasant. "Good with excuses, aren't you. But it won't work on me, I get to see the picture with surround sound, remember? I understand, you know. I do. But you can't help her by hiding from her." Angel didn't say anything and he went on. "What happens if she gets hurt because you were too far away watching to help?" His voice softened, gentled. "You can't stand on the outside and watch the world if you want to be a part of it."

"Like you are?" It was cruel and he knew it, tasted the simple, petty meanness before the words even left his mouth. Doyle's lips pinched briefly white, the only sign he'd heard.

"She needs you."

"Then let's go. 

 

* * *

  
"I do wish you could give me a little more detail," Giles said. Ever a good host, he was in the kitchen making sandwiches for his unexpected, and not entirely welcome, guests. In between paper grocery sacks and the litter of raw ingredients on his counter, he'd managed to find space to slice tomatoes and was layering them over bacon. "We have so little to work with right now that anything would be useful."

"Wish I had more to give you," Doyle said, helping himself to the plate as Giles set it on the coffee table. "Wouldn't be the first time we were wanting a few more specifics. They aren't much for sharpening the picture."

"We know there's already been a murder." Angel stood near the window, looking out through the sheer curtains. For the first time, he realized that he'd missed Sunnydale. This was the place he'd finally started living again, or trying to, and despite everything that had happened, it had been home. He missed the gang too, more than he had expected for all that he wasn't sure he could really call them friends. 

He doubted the feeling was mutual. Giles hadn't been particularly happy to see them on his doorstep but then, he had perfectly good reasons for that. Not the least of them that he had agreed to call Buffy and let her know Angel was in town. She was on patrol right now, Giles had told them, and it was difficult to resist the urge to find her, watch her. Make sure she was safe. Giles had pointed out quite reasonably that as late as it was, by the time they found her she would probably be on her way home for the night and so they had stayed here instead to work on the details.

"You said this all started when they found an old mission?" Doyle asked thoughtfully, polishing off the sandwich before reaching for another. "Probably some sort of spirit then, yeah? Unless it's a demon that just gets off on the desecrated holy ground vibes."

"A demon wouldn't explain the stolen Chumash knife or the murder," Angel turned away from the window and paced in front of the sofa as he thought. "There's a Father Gabriel--"

"Giles," The front door burst open and they all froze as Buffy dashed in, her arms loaded with bags. She shoved one of them next to the others on the counter and the other had to make a home on the floor. "Doogie's was open late tonight and they were having a huge sale on all their pie fillings, so I picked up some extras. Do you think we have enough..." She trailed off as she looked up and saw them. All the animation seemed to deflate from her, her expression going slack with confusion and oh, hurt, limned with betrayal and it was Giles who was taking the brunt of it.

"Buffy," Angel stepped forward, "We just got here a little while ago. Doyle--this is Doyle," he gestured at the other man, who offered a feeble wave, "He had a vision that you were in danger."

"Yeah, it's this thing I do," Doyle muttered, his appetite finally seeming to curdle and he set the remaining half of his sandwich back on his plate.

"Good party trick," Buffy said distantly. She turned back to her groceries, slowly removing cans and stacking them neatly on the counter. "So you came to give me the heads up? I'm pretty sure AT&T has service in LA or hey, you could just call 1-800-COLLECT."

"I want to help," Angel said softly, helplessly. 

"And you coming here is supposed to help?" She slammed one of the cans down too hard and a shiny dent appeared on the countertop. "I thought we agreed not to see each other for awhile."

"We did, I--"

"I need to learn how to live without you," she told him and he wondered distantly at how she'd changed in such a short time. Pain, he knew, was an excellent educator. "And I'm always in danger here. You knew that when you left."

She had always known how best to wound him, Slayer instincts always guiding her to the vulnerabilities where one could drive a stake. "Yes, I did," he agreed coolly, "It wasn't my choice to come back."

His own barb hit home, he saw it flicker in her eyes before she glanced at Doyle. He didn't bother to correct her assumption. It was in him to beg her forgiveness; he hated hurting her, hated seeing it even as some part of him inside deeply resented how easily she did it to him. He didn't allow it lenience; he needed to stay and she could be allowed her bitterness. Even if it had been for the best, he had been the one to leave. 

"Be that as it may," Giles interrupted, "We were discussing our most recent problem. Angel, you mentioned a Father Gabriel?"

"His family has been here for generations," Angel said slowly, drawing his eyes from Buffy. "He might be able to give us some information."

"Fine, I'll go talk to him," Buffy said briskly, forestalling Angel's protest with, "Unless you've found some SPF 5000 sunscreen? It'll be dawn soon."

It galled that she was right and he glanced at Doyle's hands, at the half dozen band-aids on his fingers. "You'll call us if you find out anything?"

"Leave a number with Giles." Her expression softened, just a little and it was too easy to see through the phantom of her anger. Angel looked away from it, his own pain more than enough in this moment, and walked out, Doyle silently behind him. 

 

* * *

The hotel room had not been improved by their absence. The only chair in the room was wooden, pocked with dents and cigarette burns and Angel sat in it as he watched Doyle check the curtains for any holes or gaps. All too quickly, he was satisfied and that left them with nothing but the rusty air conditioning and the first peach colored light filling the room.

"You want me to leave you alone for awhile?" Doyle asked, his voice apologetic and awkward.

Last week he would have said yes. He would have sat here in the dark and brooded, as Cordelia called it, about things he couldn't change. He would have closed his eyes to better feel the ache of it, savored his grief alone. Last week, only a handful of days ago.

"Don't leave."

It was so easy to pull Doyle into his arms and hold him, bury his face into the warm curve of his neck and breathe in the scent of his life. It made his mouth fill with saliva, soft and heavy and he swallowed it away, wanting only to borrow Doyle's warmth, not consume it. He tried to convey it with touch and thought that he had failed. The other man was shaking, his muscles jerking lightly under Angel's fingers and Angel knew he should let him go. Doyle was clearly uncomfortable with this and hadn't he done all he should just by being here? It was true, and he knew it yet his fingers refused to loosen until Doyle finally pulled back and then they did it with reluctance, letting his warmth slip away.

Only to slide to the floor in front of him, his eyes shadowed and lowered.

"Don't...don't say anything, okay?"

He almost spoiled it immediately, started to ask him why and bit it back, nodding instead. 

Doyle didn't meet his eyes as he reached for the fly of Angel's pants, and wordlessly, he helped slide them down, enough for Doyle to lean in between his legs. He steadied Angel's cock with a tentative hand and the bandages were cooler than his fingers, the odd feeling of them barely distracting against the touch of his lips. A soft, nearly shy kiss against the tip before the heat of his mouth wrapped around it. 

A weak cry tried to escape and Angel bit his tongue, tasted his own used blood. Much too soft a touch, hardly any suction at all and Doyle couldn't seem to take much in, drooling around it and over his hand, blissful wetness that Angel could slide through and into, the slick darkness of Doyle's mouth. 

He wanted to look down and see it, the slow rise and fall of the dark head between his legs, the way his cheeks would hollow and fill as he sucked but even the thought was almost too much. No expertise here, just the offer of simple pleasure and Angel could no more have pulled away then as driven a stake through his own heart. 

Doyle's free hand found his own and Angel clutched it, felt tiny bones grinding in it and the muffled cry of pain echoed around him, faint and bright. It didn't stop, sucking clumsily, wonderfully, and he shouldn't come in Doyle's mouth, not so far from society's manners not to know it was considered rude, but when he slid his hand into dark hair he forgot what it was for, riding the rough side of Doyle's tongue and he felt Doyle choke on the sudden rush of it. Even that felt too good to bear and he could have wept when Doyle jerked away, his palm a feeble comparison to his mouth.

It felt like forever before he could blink his eyes open, still sprawled in the chair with his legs spread like something used. Doyle was kneeling in front of him, eyes closed, his breath coming in panicked blurts. His lips were reddened and swollen, shining with pearl and Angel wanted so badly to kiss them, bite them gently and make them redder. 

"Do--" 

Doyle cut him off quickly with a shake of his head. He licked his lips slowly and Angel bit his own, tasted again his own blood. "Don't say anything!" Doyle whimpered, trembling so hard his eyelashes quivered. "Just don't!"

Angel nodded and Doyle wrapped his arms around his waist, buried his face against Angel's belly and if he felt warm wetness against his skin, Angel didn't say anything.

 

* * *

 

 **  
Chapter Seven   
**

In his dream, he was fever-hot, damp with sweat although his real memories of being feverish were old and crumbled to dust. He had been a kind of ill not all that long ago, shivering with heat and poison but that had been a deep, sickly heat, blurred with delirium.

Angel woke enough to realize the heat was from Doyle and one side of him plastered to the blankets with sweat that wasn't his own. For some reason Doyle had decided on wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants to bed and he was apparently baking in them; his face was flushed and most of him was damp with sweat. It filled Angel with a resigned exasperation that he chose to ignore, for now. Sleeping with someone else always had a share of discomforts. With Doyle it was apparently going to be a nightlong sauna.

There was a cheap plastic clock near the bed, its glaring numbers declaring that it was just past ten am. That meant he'd only slept for about four hours and his body was decidedly unhappy about that. It didn't matter; his dreams had been unsettling and they were already starting to fade from his memory. 

It was easier to forget when Doyle made a tired, snuffling sort of noise and nudged closer. One of his legs was thrown over Angel's and he was pressed firmly against his hip, shifting gradually until Angel could feel the hard press of his morning erection. Morning wood, his brain blared at him, apparently deciding to be vulgar today. A piss hard-on, such a human thing and it made a response echo in him, dull warmth low in his stomach even though the past week should have left him ready for another century of abstinence.

He wondered idly if it was because they were guys that they were so eager for the sex, wanting more as they got more, or maybe Doyle woke up like this every morning. He was young enough that it wasn't strange. There was something to be said for it, anyway, something good. 

One of Doyle's arms was draped over him, fingers resting lightly on Angel's belly and it was easy to push it lower, to tug his boxers out of the way and wrap their combined hands around his cock. Doyle's palm was hot and damp from sleep, and Angel pulled him closer, sighing into his hair. If Doyle was still asleep, maybe he could pretend to still be asleep and they could both pretend that this was just fine.

Doyle grunted and moved against him more deliberately, his hand tightening infinitesimally. His shirt was riding up and Angel found the edge with his free hand, fumbled beneath it to touch the smooth skin at the small of Doyle's back, resisting the temptation to slide his hand lower. Forced himself to be satisfied with just this.

The phone rang and they both startled, would have separated if Angel hadn't tightened his arm around Doyle. His hand was sticky as he pulled it away from Doyle's and snatched up the receiver. He expected Doyle to stop, to pull his hand free and stumble off to the bathroom, had to close his eyes when he didn't. His touch lightened briefly, uncertainly, before it tightened and moved with true purpose. Angel nearly forgot he was holding the phone.

"Hello?" Angel said hoarsely. He cleared his throat before he tried again. "Hello?"

"Angel? This is Giles."

Like anyone else would call. "What's going on?"

"Firstly, don't panic. Buffy is fine, but she was attacked. And I'm afraid your Father Gabriel is dead."

"She's not hurt?" He thought of Buffy as the hand around him tightened, the soft, tentative rub of a broad thumb just beneath the tip nearly an agony.

"No, no, but it seems we are dealing with some sort of vengeance demon." She'd been beautiful, the one time they had been together. Slim fingers touching him, nervous and eager at the same time and her mouth had tasted like bitter lipstick and innocence. The rest of her had only tasted light and womanly, a familiar melting sweetness with nothing unusual to declare her a slayer. It came to him that she would have liked that idea.

The sound Doyle made was nearly a whine, louder than his breathing and Angel yanked his hand from under Doyle's shirt and covered his mouth instead, felt stubble scraping his palm, a merciless sign of his masculinity. She had flinched when he first pushed inside and it hadn't been pain, he knew, just a pained catch of fear. Not of him, no, not then, fear of the unknown, the same simple emotion of any girl who was losing her virginity. Only it had been hers and he'd tasted her fear the same way he'd tasted her skin, and had only loved her more. 

"Apparently, we're all to meet over here," Giles sounded resigned and Angel made a sound of agreement, wondered exactly what he was trying to convey and didn't care. "Angel? Are you still there?"

The voice buzzing in his ear was just a reminder, a puzzle piece from the town he'd been unable to leave behind. He'd heard that voice screaming once, in pain, he'd caused that pain and God, don't think of that, not now. Doyle's breath was hot and moist against his palm, coming in quick spurts.

"Yes," he said, sounding strangely, utterly normal and he thought of Buffy's eyes, about the way she smelled after she'd been fighting vampires, like sweat and lust, about the one time she'd been beneath him, and he arched off the bed and came into the warm cup of the hand surrounding him. He felt the sudden rush of heat against his hip, the choked off moan as Doyle followed him and there was no sweet womanly scent, only semen, glossy-wet and heavy.

"We'll meet you in twenty minutes or so," Angel told the voice on the other end of the phone and he set the receiver down gently. Reached down and rubbed his thumb through the slick mess in Doyle's palm. He said, quietly, "We need to get going."

"Yeah," Doyle sat up, his back to Angel as he gathered clean clothes and went to the bathroom. The click of the shutting door made him close his eyes again, and he thought of Buffy and wondered what the hell he was going to do.

 

 

* * *

 

 **  
Chapter Eight   
**

 

Hours later he was sitting uncomfortably in one of Giles's armchairs, still wondering. It was really no surprise that this little get together was particularly unpleasant, and not just because Anya was reading a list of symptoms for syphilis to Xander.

"You're gonna get vesicles and pustules. They have pictures." She attempted to show them to Xander, who seemed less than happy about it. Angel had to agree it wasn't on his preferred reading list either.

"Oh, god," Xander groaned.

"On the plus side, the syphilis will drive you insane first, so you probably won't mind," Angel said blandly, studying his nails to avoid several glares that were sent his way. It wasn't that he was enjoying Xander's illness -- except for the part where he was -- and he really didn't want him to die. But hours of listening to the others debate about their situation while doing absolutely nothing about it was getting on his nerves. 

Had he really missed this?

The arguing was getting louder and more rambled as the entire group joined in with their own opinions, even as Buffy silently stirred her pie filling with ever greater force. At the rate she was beating it, it wasn't going to need baking.

"I don't think anyone appreciates the truth of the situation!" Willow said, slamming down her book, 'Indigenous People of North America.'

"If they don't, then they aren't the only ones," Angel said, quietly. It was his first real contribution to the matter at hand and the others fell into surprised silence. He realized they were waiting expectantly for him to explain and he sighed.

"Here's the truth I'm seeing. I was sent here by a vision from otherworldly beings because Buffy is in danger. Your best friend is seriously ill and innocent people are dying." He tried to be gentle, but the pained look in Willow's eyes was equal parts distressing and frustrating, and it was the frustration that was needling him. A weeks worth of poor sleep was creeping up on him, and Doyle was off searching around town for any clues that could be found. That was itching at him too, knowing that Doyle didn't know Sunnydale well and there were a thousand and one troubles he could get into, even during the day. But the harsh afternoon sun that was creeping around the edge of the curtains was keeping him here and useless. That was frustrating him most of all.

"But if we could just talk to him..." Willow began, trailing off at Angel's sudden, harsh laugh.

"And say what?" Angel felt older than anyone had a right to be. "Tell you what, when you figure out the perfect apology speech for someone who's had their entire family slaughtered, write it down for me, all right? I could probably use it."

He regretted it the moment he said it, the sorrow and distance he saw in her eyes. He'd always liked Willow and his current predicament was hardly her fault. The others looked away as well, and those that were standing shuffled an unconscious step away from him. All of them, even Buffy, all but Xander who looked at him with fever-bright eyes and the underlying hatred that had always been there. 

Discomfort wasn't even the word for it, and he couldn't sit here anymore but he couldn't leave.

Instead, he stood up and walked down the hall towards the bathroom. Not that anyone would think he needed it but it was either there or the bedroom and he couldn't stop thinking about the one other time he'd been in Giles's bedroom, not when he'd just seen the results of it so clearly in Xander's gaze. 

Everything had been arranged to perfect detail; he was an artist in his heart, with a paper or pen, or in that case, the delicate lines of a corpse. Blood-red petals leading a path to the bedroom, the candles, the music, not a single element forgotten and he had sipped Giles's pain at finding Jenny dead like he might have drank a fine red wine. He remembered all of it, arranged as exquisitely in his memories as she had been on that bed. 

People tended to see Angelus as another person; he was the vampire, not Angel. He thought Buffy saw him that way, once he'd returned from Hell. Two different people who happened to share the same body, but it wasn't true. Giles might know the truth and he thought Xander did as well. The kid was dumb as driftwood but he had some common sense to him.

He remembered everything he'd done during those soulless months and worse, he remembered enjoying it. He remembered chasing her down those hallways in the school, following the scent of her terror and he'd been hard when he found her, when he'd broken her neck and watched her die. He hadn't just enjoyed it, he'd loved it, as nearly as a soulless creature could love. And all his guilt didn't make that go away, it only made the memory that much worse, his remorse and shame a cup that would never be filled. 

"Is something wrong?" Angel stifled a gasp and whirled around. If he'd had a heartbeat, it would have been pounding out of his chest. Giles was standing behind him, looking uncomfortable and concerned and for a terrified moment he was sure Giles had read everything he'd been thinking, and he wished for those words of apology that could heal everything he'd done. It was a deeper pain still to know those words couldn't exist.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Giles said apologetically. "I just--you're...are you all right?" Angel couldn't quite think of a way to answer that and Giles added embarrassment to his expression. "I suppose that's a foolish question, considering the circumstances." He took a step closer and his willingness to stand so near made something inside Angel ease, just a little. "Are you worried about your friend?"

"Doyle?" Well, now he was. "No, I'm sure he's fine."

Giles looked thoughtful. "He has visions, you said. How did you ever come to find him?" 

"Actually, he found me." Angel smiled a little, remembering. Finding a half-demon in his apartment after a long day at work had made for some unexpected changes, that was for sure. "The Powers That Be sent him."

"The Powers That Be," Giles mused aloud, pushing his glasses up on his nose. "The Powers That Be what, I wonder?"

"I don't know," Angel said honestly. "I just know they want me to help people."

"And you trust them?" Strange that after all this time he still had to remind himself that he was older than Giles. Sometimes he felt as young as Buffy when they talked.

"I don't know," Angel repeated, slowly. "I trust Doyle."

A banging on the door interrupted them. 

 _Doyle._  

The hard desperation in the knocking had him nearly pushing Giles aside, trying to get to the door to see what was on the other side, standing in the dangerous sunlight. It was already opened, Buffy leaning against the jamb but nothing could have prepared him for who he saw on the other side. 

Beneath a stinking, tattered blanket, smoke rising from his skin and through the thick folds, was Spike, begging to be let inside.

"C'mon, I can't hurt anyone!" he pleaded, "I can't bite anyone."

"As I recall, you're perfectly capable of hiring other people to do it for you," Angel said coolly, stepping up next to Buffy, just out of the light. "Hello, Spike."

The rising smoke was thickening. In a few more minutes it wouldn't matter if they let him inside. Spike was pressing against the invisible barrier as though it might break under his weight alone. "That was quite the sadistic bastard you got the last time. I remember five hot pokers. The one here," he poked a finger into Spike's gut and pulled it back before it felt more than marginally warm. "Took longer to heal than the other ones, you know."

He felt Buffy flinch and glanced at her, saw from the look in her eyes that she hadn't known what had happened to him. For a moment, all he could look at was her, Los Angeles seemed so very far away and Spike's wheedling was dim and pathetic. Standing outside, looking in, at a kind of life that wasn't his.

So pathetic. 

"Let him in," he said quietly and walked away. He sat back down in his chair and looked at his hands while Giles invited Spike inside, and didn't watch while he waited to be useful.

 

* * *

It took less than twenty minutes for him to remember he hated Spike. He might have remembered sooner if it hadn't been for the fact that brooding tended to block out most of the annoying things of the world. It was an amazingly effective tool for not hearing the whining of a vampire while he was tied to a chair or the various murmuring conversations as they tried to decide what to do with their avenging Indian spirit. Native American spirit, he correctly mentally, mustn't be politically incorrect. 

Sitting there not listening was easy enough, and brooding about Buffy was almost as familiar as not breathing. It wasn't until Doyle came back that all Hell decided to not only break loose, but to hang around and rifle the change out of the sofa cushions.

Doyle hadn't even knocked when he came in breathlessly, kicking the door shut behind him. "Angel, I think we've got some problems--" He stopped short and stared at Spike, who was neatly tied to a chair in the middle of the room. "Is this some kind of Sunnydale holiday tradition? After you eat the bird, you sacrifice a vampire and have pie?"

"We'll explain later," Angel told him when no one else spoke up. "What did you find? What problems?" That sounded particularly ominous.

"Didn't find much at first, other than no one else has a clue. Have the police here even heard about that yellow tape? You can just wander into any old crime scene and have yourself a look around. I did find out one thing--" 

Spike's laughter interrupted them and they all turned to look at him. "Oh, this is rich. Since when did you start batting for the other team," Spike was still laughing, wheezing with it. It emphasized the shadows under his eyes, the hollowness of his cheeks. 

"What are you talking about," Angel asked distractedly, barely glancing at him. The problems were all he wanted to hear about. Maybe Doyle had the right idea about starting a new holiday tradition.

Spike nodded towards Doyle. "Your boyfriend over there. Didn't think you got the urge to play those games."

He had everyone's attention now and preened with it as well as a half-starved vampire tied to a chair could. 

"What did you say?" Angel said, softly.

"Come on, he smells like you've been rolling around in the backseat of your car with him. Don't know why I didn't notice it before."

"Not funny." Even if it was true enough.

"Who's joking, peaches? Funny, I didn't think you swung that way...cept that one--"

Angel's hand on his jaw silenced him; he was across the room and gripping it in one hand as fast as a human could blink. "You'll have a harder time spilling your secrets about those soldiers with a broken jaw," he warned softly. It worked; Spike lapsed into sullen silence but the damage was well and truly done. 

He should have denied it from the first, he realized, far too late for any indignant blustering to be believable and he watched helplessly as Buffy fled. Her carelessly thrown bowl of pie filling wobbled on the edge of the counter, defying gravity for only a moment before it clattered to the floor and sprayed its deep brown contents over the floor and onto ankles. He nearly went after her, hesitating under the accusing glares of her friends, and Giles's was the worst coming after his hesitant comfort in the hallway. Helplessly, he looked at Doyle. His face was calm and easy. Wondered if anyone else could see the guilt in his green eyes like Angel could.

Willow spoke first, her voice hurt and angry, "Are you really--"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Doyle exploded, managing to look equal parts horrified and bewildered. "Is this entire greenstick town crazy?"

"Don't ask me, I have syphilis," Xander mumbled.

"Look, all I wanted to say was that all the weapons at the Cultural Center have gone missing, all right? Thought that might be more important than sermons on the mound from the party favor. Christ, I need a drink," he muttered and stormed outside.

"The whole town's not crazy, it's just a little evil." Willow muttered. "Like Los Angeles is some sort of Starbucks of Righteousness." Still, she seemed somewhat mollified by Doyle's outburst and the others seemed to take their cue from her, settling back into their respective dinner preparation/spirit destroying tasks.

So there were choices. Go after Buffy and risk her wrath, and also the wrath of all the others when he fumbled his explanation. Go after Doyle and risk making suspicions worse, especially if Spike decided to open his mouth again, or stay here. And sit. And watch everyone looking at him out of the corners of their eyes while they tried to decide if Spike was telling the truth. 

Angel rolled his eyes heavenward and went after Doyle.

The sun hadn't quite set but Doyle hadn't gone far. He was sitting on a worn wooden bench in the shadows, a cigarette in one hand. He took a long drag off it when Angel sat next to him and exhaled a pale cloud of smoke.

"Didn't think you smoked."

"I don't," Doyle coughed, waving it carelessly so that Angel had to lean away from the glowing tip. "Haven't for a coupla years now. Who can afford to smoke these days?"

They sat in silence, Doyle smoking and coughing in almost equal parts. He offered the pack to Angel, and after a moments consideration, he took one. The second from a new pack. Too tired to engage in any more moral wrestling, Angel closed his eyes and smoked, and concentrated on nothing more complex than remembering how to inhale.

"You were right," Doyle said abruptly, crushing out the cigarette butt on the bricks. "I shouldn't have come. Should've stayed at the hotel." 

"It wasn't your fault." 

"No, it wasn't." Doyle agreed, his voice blurred around another cigarette between his lips. He lit it and inhaled deeply, the end glowing cherry-red. "But it still wouldn't have happened."

Angel opened his eyes lazily. Doyle was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and Angel could see the pale strip of skin between his hairline and the collar of his jacket. He was struck with the urge to lean forward and kiss that soft skin and put the cigarette between his lips instead.

"Been thinking about those weapons," Doyle said. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger as though his head ached. "I think our unfriendly ghost is gathering some pals to help him with the job."

"A raiding party." 

"The people he's gone after. It's been mostly the people in charge, you know? I think whoever he goes after next must be right popular if he needs all that backup."

"He's a warrior, to a warrior the leader means the strongest person," Angel said slowly, a realization coming to him.

Doyle's eyes widened with the same idea. "That would mean they're coming here!"

"Buffy."

They fumbled out the cigarettes, both of them heading for the door. Night had fallen completely by then and there were no shadows to skirt through, Angel striding purposefully with Doyle on his heels. Doyle stumbled suddenly, crying out and Angel caught him without thinking, saw the cluster of feathers without realizing at first what they meant, the sudden scent of blood flaring like a crimson skeleton of lightning. 

Pain seared along his cheek, the differing scent of his own blood in the air. The arrow that had nicked him stuck hard in the door and it jerked Angel from his trance. Holding Doyle with one arm, he jerked the door open and dragged them both inside. There were already other arrows bristling along the walls and table, two had found their way into Spike although they hadn't been lucky enough for him to be hit in the heart.

The others were in the only safe place, behind the table and Angel managed to get them both over to it, setting Doyle down as carefully as he could. It couldn't be too bad, his breathing was fairly regular, it couldn't, please...

The arrow was in his upper thigh, his pant leg already soaked with blood. Angel's belt hissed hot with friction as he yanked it through his belt loops. He wrapped it around Doyle's leg as gently as he could, threading it back through the buckle and pulling it tight above the wound. It would bleed too much if he pulled the arrow free now so he left it.

"Think we drew our conclusions a little late," Doyle's face was white with what must have been pain, his mouth tight and pale. He held the makeshift tourniquet with cold hands while Angel crouched low and looked over the edge of the table at their attackers. It was impossible to tell how many there were, the arrows still flying thickly around them. He hoped Doyle wasn't right. 

  
 

* * *

 **  
Chapter Nine   
**

 

It was quickly becoming apparent that Giles either needed to somehow make his table twice as big or they needed to come up with a plan. Seven people did not fit comfortably behind a standard dining room table. As it was, Angel was practically straddling Doyle's prone form and he doubted that was helping much with the speculation, never mind that Doyle was more interested in holding the tourniquet around his leg than Angel's relative position.

"We need some kind of plan," Buffy said, echoing Angel's thoughts. There couldn't be more than three or four archers but their positions made moving almost impossible.

"Hiding behind the table has been working for us so far," Xander muttered.

"Someone needs to get outside and stop at least one of those guys," Angel said. He peered around the side of the table quickly. The one in the window was a nice, vulnerable choice. "I'm going. If I get shot, I've got a better chance of it not hitting anything vital than any of you." Spike, who was littered with arrows at this point, seemed proof enough of that.

"And we aren't waiting for them to run out of arrows, why?"

"They're spirits, who's to say they will?" Angel countered.

She wanted to argue, Angel could see it in her eyes, but he was right and they both knew it. It was rather interesting that nearly all their arguments had been suspended due to some kind of violence. At least their relationship was never dull. "Be careful," she said seriously. 

Doyle shifted beneath him. His eyes were open and glazed with pain. He smiled weakly. "Yeah, cause the keys to the car are in your pants." 

"You couldn't drive it right now, anyway. Don't move," Angel told him and Doyle rolled his eyes. 

"My one skill of running away and hiding has already been put to use. I'm spent."

The arrows lodged themselves around them in a fairly random pattern as the warriors tried to hit something useful but they did have a certain frequency. About fifteen seconds between from any direction, long enough to grab another arrow and nock it. 

Fifteen seconds and he wanted that time from the spirit he'd be facing.

"When I go, try to get some weapons from the chest," Angel said, waiting. Any time now... "They'll be concentrating on me." An arrow from the direction of the window thocked into the wall over his head and Angel ran. 

The first arrow hit him in the back, close to his shoulder and it burned worse than getting stabbed with a red-hot poker. Damned ancient spirits with wooden arrows, couldn't they be haunted by spirits that shopped at Outdoor World? The second went in his upper thigh, enough to make him stumble but the door wasn't that far away. He didn't bother opening it, hitting it hard enough to tear it from one hinge, splintering the latch as it flew open. He had time to yank the arrow from his leg before one of them jumped on his back, a knife at his throat and a tearing pain from the arrow on his shoulder as it was jerked to the side. 

But he wasn't as human as they seemed to think he was. 

He reached over his shoulder, grabbed a handful of hair and simply yanked the spirit off him. There was a surprised grunt as he hit the ground and before he could recover, Angel snapped his neck. In this case, kill or be killed wasn't even appropriate. These creatures had long since been dead and dust, and that was where they belonged. Ironic coming from a vampire but then, Sunnydale was a place for irony. 

The others were faring poorly, the warriors bitterly strong and somehow impossible to kill. Even the one at his feet was stirring weakly, eyes blazing hatred and promising death. Angel kicked him in the face, hard enough to splatter blood if the creature beneath him had been human. Once, twice and it stilled, finally, and part of him was sickened by this.

Another part of him liked it just fine, burning cold somewhere near his unbeating heart. Crushing skulls beneath his boots lacked art but there was music to be made in a scream. It was the same thing that put a smirk on Spike's face as he watched Buffy struggling with the leader, and it was what gave Angel the skill to snatch up the Chumash knife at his feet and hurl it with deadly aim at the warrior who was creeping up behind her. He fell back with a shriek and a fine spray of blood and, of course their own weapons could hurt them. Their weapons were their own destruction, his demon allowed him to save those he cared about. Irony, thy name is Sunnydale.

 

* * *

After that, it was simple. Simple as battles to the death go, anyway. It wasn't even as dusty as killing vampires and there was nothing to do but straighten the furniture, rehang the door and listen to Giles mutter about the various arrow holes in his home.

One of which was in the man on the sofa. The only person injured was Doyle, and he was none too pleased about it, either. The others were finishing with dinner preparations while Angel and Giles tried to decide just what to do about the injury.

The arrow had a small head, which was a relief, and the blood was neither gushing nor spurting so it was a safe guess that it hadn't hit any major veins or arteries. It was deep enough into the meat of his thigh that it would probably bleed well enough once the arrow was removed. However, the question of what to do about said removal was still in the debate process.

"Perhaps we should simply take him to the hospital," Giles suggested. They had cut away the pant leg from around it, despite Doyle's loud protests, and Giles was examining the wound. "They aren't likely to ask more than the basic questions."

"Right, and then they decide I need a tetanus shot and do a little bloodwork, and then I get to play Operation." Doyle tried to jerk away as Giles gently probed the wound and yelped in pain as it jostled the arrow. "Trust me, if I go in on a stretcher, I'll leave in a body bag. Finding out my blood is 0-Demon-Positive would get those soldier boys of the party favor salivating, and will you stop touching it!"

"Then we need to pull the arrow out so we can get some pressure on the wound," Angel said quietly. He moved to kneel next to the sofa and rolled up his sleeves. Doyle's eyes went wide.

"What? It hurt enough going in and you're just gonna yank it out? What about anesthetic, fuck, can't you just bandage around it, can't I even have a whiskey, Angel, man, don't--fuck, OW!!"

The arrow came out with a deeply sickening popping sound, followed by a surging tide of blood that splattered Angel. It was stunningly warm over his hands, flecks of it on his face. Giles was there immediately with a thick bandage. He covered it quickly, putting hard pressure on it to stop the bleeding and that left Angel to sit there, his fingers painted with Doyle's blood. No one else was watching them, all of them dealing with the own problems, checking on their friends, making sure the pies weren't burnt.

Nothing but Doyle watching him with steady eyes that still watered with pain. A warm droplet was just beneath Angel's lower lip. He could feel it sliding ticklishly downward and if he flicked his tongue out, he could taste it. It would taste just like it smelled, he knew, only better, the faint gamey scent that said demon would be a cooling wash over his tongue, half-demon but half-human and that would be unique, a delicacy rarely tasted. Strange things that mingled oddly, uncomfortably, on the palate, corn chips and chocolate type of taste. Better than cold animal blood by a ratio that couldn't even be defined. 

A low growl behind made him turn and look, his hands still dripping with cooling blood. Spike was straining against his ropes, his face twisted into his demon visage. His eyes were on Angel's hands, following the droplets that fell to the floor in tiny, perfect circles of crimson. Angel clenched his fists, felt blood squelch between his fingers, and nearly snarled back, his meal,  _his_  and if Spike so much as tried to lick the drying specks from the floor, he would--

 _Stop it!_

Angel closed his eyes briefly, reopened them to find Doyle was still watching him silently, hardly seeming to notice as Giles added another thick wad of bandages to the soaked ones against his leg. No condemnation in his eyes. Nothing but calm waiting. 

Angel got carefully to his feet, moving slowly as he couldn't use his hands for balance. He brushed past Willow, who was setting the table, and Xander, who was trying to sneak a piece of turkey without being seen. He walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet with the tips of his fingers and scrubbed away the blood until his hands burned from the friction.

 

* * *

 

  
It was a small hole that only needed a couple of sutures. Giles managed it while Angel held Doyle still, and listened in silence while he complained about the pain, his pants, the lack of whiskey and he knew there was brandy out there, they'd used it in the sweet potatoes.

Angel didn't mind. A complaining Doyle was a living one and he'd pitch in an entire bottle of whiskey on the way home for that. An expensive bottle. 

Someone stepped up next to him and Angel looked up automatically to see Willow. "Were you both staying for dinner," she asked anxiously, her hands filled with silverware.

It was so tempting to say yes. To stay here for just a little while longer and just...bask in it. Buffy was in the kitchen, scooping mashed potatoes into a serving dish. She didn't look at him.

"I don't think we should," he said quietly, and it was like the room started breathing again. True to form, it was Spike who broke the tension.

"What about me, don't I get anything to eat?" Spike whined. 

"Suck on a band aid," Doyle mumbled and tossed one of the bloody bandages in his direction. It fell short of the mark and a chorus of, "Ew, gross!" was struck up from the other side of the room. Angel rolled his eyes and retrieved it. The demon was banked back, for now, and nothing about it called to anything but the trash can.

"Behave," Angel told him, automatically reaching down to ruffle Doyle's hair. Just a light touch, nothing, really, and Doyle barely murmured a protest. No one else noticed, certainly not to think it was out of the ordinary.

No one but Buffy. 

He saw it in her eyes, the knowledge of it and knew he couldn't escape it this time. He should have known from the beginning; he was poor liar and he'd never been able to hide things from her. Had never really wanted to, until now.

Anya was helping with the arrow removal from Spike, and when Angel stepped into the kitchen, they were alone. Buffy didn't look up from the relish tray she was arranging, and her voice was pitched low to keep her friends from hearing. "It's true, isn't it. About him."

"It's not what you think."

"What, you aren't sleeping with him?" Cool disbelief and it made his soul ache.

"Okay, it is partly what you think. It's not...Doyle was sent by the Powers That Be and we--" he fumbled, trying to explain, hating the hurt in her eyes. "I'm sorry." It felt as lame as it sounded. He'd come to protect her and in the process ripped open every healing wound between them. It was worth it, he told himself. Better a little emotional pain then dead. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yeah? Well, that seems to be the only thing you're really good at."

He flinched, didn't deny it. Couldn't.

"Do you love him?" she asked, his voice small and hurt. Angel opened his mouth, his mind blank--and laughter from the living room made them both look out. Everyone was gathered around the sofa and Doyle seemed to be telling them a story, his hands flying as he described something that was apparently large and ferocious. Describing one of their cases, maybe. Or possibly what it was like working with Cordelia.

Angel watched him and when the others laughed again, Doyle laughed too and then winced as it jostled his leg.

"I'm sorry," Buffy said, and he tore his gaze away, back to her. "I shouldn't have asked that."

"Considering what you know about me, I think that's a fair enough question," he said distantly. "There's no danger. He has these visions and that's the only thing that helps. That's all."

"I still shouldn't have. We're both moving on. We don't live in each others lives anymore. I mean, I'm dating too--"

"I know, but--you're what?"

"It doesn't matter," Buffy shook her head, and wrapped her arms around herself. She looked up at him and her eyes were so much older, as old as he was. Older. Like they had been when he'd returned from Hell. "Just--take care of yourself, okay?"

He hugged her then, tightly, and in that moment, if she had asked him to stay, he would have. He would have damned everything, damned himself yet again and stayed with her, he loved her so much. God, he loved her. It had taken everything within him to leave the first time and he simply didn't have it to give again. 

But she let him go and stepped away, went back out into the light with her friends. As he watched her go, Angel's eyes fell again on Doyle. He wasn't asleep but it wouldn't be too much longer, his lashes dipping heavily against his cheeks and Willow smiled at whatever he said to her. 

He watched them silently before he went back out to say his goodbyes. 

Again.

 

* * *

 

  
The trip back to the hotel was uneventful, Angel not feeling like driving back to LA that night and Doyle not up to much more than sleeping. Doyle didn't even complain when Angel carried him up to the room. His one pitiful look at the stairs had been more than enough and Angel had scooped him out of the car before he could even ask for help.

He was already more asleep than not, his leg propped on the spare pillows and the promised bottle of whiskey half-empty in his loose grip. Angel was sitting in the splintery wooden chair, watching silently and ready to take the bottle as soon as Doyle's grip relaxed a little more. 

"You all right?" Doyle apparently had more energy left in him than Angel had given him credit for. 

"I doubt it," he sighed, his eyes still on Doyle, who was sprawled out on the bed in a mockery of seduction. They'd pulled off his ruined pants and called his boxers good enough. Perfectly normal underclothes, grey cotton, not even satin like Angel was partial to, and a white t-shirt, ordinary guy clothes and Angel wanted to fuck him so badly he could feel the ache in his back teeth.

Almost wanted to hurt him, to bruise him and lick at his pain, his own inner pain like something tangible and he wanted to share it with Doyle, spread it thin between them until maybe it would vanish. And he could strip away that plain cotton to get to the soft, soft skin beneath it and listen to Doyle croon obscenities in his ear while he fucked him, slow and deep, scalded by the depths of Doyle's body and he could watch when those green eyes rolled back just a little, the press of a pink tongue caught between his teeth as Doyle came.

Sex with a man was as messy as it came, he had discovered, and afterward, they would both be sticky and wet, stinking of sex and all the fluids that came with it and they could either wash it away or fall asleep in it, waking later to the dimmed thickness of it still in the air. 

He wanted it so badly he could already smell it or maybe that was just from the night before. Already it seemed he was getting to used to this, some deeply deprived part of himself had awoken and cried out for it. He wanted it, and knew he couldn't have it.

Instead, he watched him fall asleep, gingerly rescuing the bottle before stretching out on the bed next to him. Laid his head on Doyle's chest and he smelled nothing like Buffy. Certainly didn't feel like her either but he was warm and his heartbeat was a steady thud beneath Angel's ear. He lay there in the dark and listened to it for a long time. 

 

* * *

 **  
Chapter Ten   
**

 

"I'm really sorry to hear about the accident," Cordelia said. She was filing her nails and casting the occasional pointed glance at their silent telephone as though it would ring by her will alone. Angel, who was listening from his office, wasn't entirely sure that it wouldn't. Cordelia possessed powers that were not to be understood by mere mortals, even undead ones.

It took a few minutes but finally, with a tone of resigned amusement, Doyle gave in and asked, "What accident?" Angel didn't look at them but couldn't help a small smile. Every morning Doyle fell for the bait and every morning he paid for it. Really, it was better than paying for cable.

"Well, the only way I could think to explain how you looked today was that you were attacked by a rogue weed whacker in your sleep. It's a good thing you got out when you did."

"Cute, princess," Doyle grinned and shook his head. He flipped another page on his newspaper. "D'you stay up late at night thinking of those?"

"Strictly improv," she told him sweetly. "I do my best work with you."

"I always knew you would," Doyle said smugly. He slapped a hand against the paper. "Which is exactly why you should go out with me tonight. Think of the movie as a research opportunity!"

The moment the conversation swerved in that direction, Angel began trying to tune it out. It wasn't easy, being that they were only ten feet away and Angel could hear their hearts beating. He finally had to stand up and shut the door before going back to the same page in his book that he'd been reading for the past twenty minutes. If Doyle was supposed to distract him from thinking about Buffy, it was working fairly well. But who was going to distract him from thinking about Doyle?

If only he'd stop trying to ask Cordelia out. This was his third try of the day and it was driving Angel quietly out of his mind. It wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to listen to it each and every time. The walls were no barrier for him and listening to Doyle fumble his way through yet another failed attempt was shredding his nerves. Considering how easily he'd been seduced, it was sort of embarrassing to listen to the 'master' at work. But that wasn't quite fair to either of them; if Doyle was crying and shaking with pain on the floor in front of her, there was a chance even Cordelia would go out with him. 

He reminded himself to never mention that to Doyle.

They were talking about him now, in hushed tones that weren't nearly quiet enough, wondering if he was moping over Buffy and he might have been doing just that if he would stop trying to not look at Doyle. 

Three times this morning. Even Doyle wasn't usually this persistent, running more on the theory that getting shot down once every twenty-four hours was fine, and tomorrow was another day. Who knew, the planets might align perfectly one day and you might get lucky. Cordelia might get desperate. But three times in one day was unheard of.

He was probably bored, which was understandable. A hole in your leg does tend to put a damper on the evening festivities, something they both had learned in the past couple days since they came back from Sunnydale. 

He remembered coming back early that morning, dawn just starting to fade the horizon. Doyle had protested sleepily that this wasn't his house when Angel helped him inside. Carrying him more than not but a masculine understanding at just how much Doyle would be pissed if he just scooped him up again had kept Doyle's feet on the floor while they shuffled inside. They had both promptly fallen asleep, Doyle not even bothering with a protective coating of flannel, and they'd woken early enough for a quick handjob before Cordelia had come into work. 

A few days later and he was still sore and limping but not so sore he couldn't manage a nice blowjob, twisted on the bed so they could both do it to each other.

Angel closed his eyes almost reluctantly, not wanting to think about it just now and also wanting to remember every single detail. His cheek pillowed on Doyle's good leg, soft hair against his cheek an absent reminder of maleness. As if he could forget while he was carefully sliding his tongue around the head of Doyle's cock, just to see if he could make him whimper. 

As it turned out, he could.

They were neither of them very good at it and it had made for a strange sort of competition, muffled laughter and embarrassment while they both tried to figure out the best way to manage. Much harder than going down on a woman, trying to remember to suck and to move and not to drool too much all while you were losing it to the heat, God, the heat and slick tongue of someone on you. Laughter had dissolved into soft moans, choked off cries and hands clenched together in a knot of fingers.

The first spurt of semen on Angel's tongue had been hot enough to burn, searing the roof of his mouth for just a second and then it was just faintly bitter and salt, not quite blood but oddly tempting just the same. He could have spent hours learning the curve of Doyle's lower lip that night and the way it looked just after Doyle licked it, wet and glistening and a little swollen. 

He could have done it all night long and well into the morning. Instead, he was spending his day listening to him cozening up to Cordelia.

Xander Harris would have had a perfect phrase for this. Angel was pretty sure it went something like, 'This sucks.'

Angel wondered what Cordelia would think of Doyle's hands, sweaty and hot with desire and if she'd ever brush the dark hair at his collar upward so she could kiss that spot. Or the softer spot just behind his knee that could only take the lightest touch because Doyle was ticklish. 

He wasn't so oblivious that he didn't know he was jealous. It was stupid because Cordelia wasn't a threat. It would probably be in insult to her if she was and he didn't even have the  _right_  to be jealous. Saying Doyle was trying to cheat on him would be like trying to match plaid with polka dots. No matter which way you turned it, it wouldn't match up. It was stupid, it was  _childish_ , and at two hundred and some change years, he should know better than any of this. Apparently, in all that time he hadn't learned much.

The demon inside him didn't give a damn about any of his mental ramblings and that part of him watched Cordelia pat Doyle's hand in a sweetly condescending way that said, 'not a chance' and would have happily ripped her fingers off just for touching him. Angel reminded himself forcibly that he actually liked Cordelia. 

Not yours, he told it firmly. It's all about the visions, it's smoke and mirrors so just enjoy what you're getting. They were lucky to be getting just that, they'd hit the sexual lottery and got their installment in person every night. Deal with it.

But she'll never hear that little sound he could make when he really liked something and there were three tiny bruises just under Doyle's ear where Angel had held him a little too tightly. He reminded himself, again, that he needed to be gentler. Doyle had never complained but he didn't need to come away with fresh injuries every time they made lo--

Had sex. Every time they had sex. Every time they fucked. 

 _Do you love him?_  Buffy's voice in the back of his mind. 

He took great pleasure in doing something he was never able to do in reality. He told his mental Buffy to shut up.

Lovely. Demon voices, Buffy voices, and the Powers That Be all conspiring about Doyle.

He wondered if he was going insane.

The sudden explosion of glass into his office from the window interrupted even his most persistent thoughts about Doyle and the demon whose entrance it announced did the rest. He caught a glimpse of a lumpy green face and a flash of red. There wasn't time to do much more than defend himself from the sudden attack, rolling out of the way from the sudden thrust of a sword. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doyle and Cordelia helplessly watching by the door, and he risked a second to wave them  _back_ , they couldn't help him fight this. All they would do was get killed. A sudden flash of pain across his arm was his reward, the scent of his blood in the air.

Whatever it was, it was strong and fast, and it managed to get him pinned on the floor with the blade of the sword inches from his neck. It was taking all his strength just to keep it from slicing his head off and that would make for a dusty finish. The demon's face was twisted into a grotesque leer and a trail of spittle dangled from one corner of his mouth, trailing wetly against Angel's cheek. 

"The jewel!" Doyle yelled suddenly, "Hit the jewel thing!"

There was a dark red jewel in the middle of the demon's forehead. If he didn't kill it, it would finish with Cordelia and Doyle, splatter their blood over the old floor and walls. 

Doyle.

Fury was numbingly cold, easily blocking any other emotion and it gave him a sudden surge of strength and he pushed back on the sword as hard as he could, catching the demon hard on the forehead. The jewel cracked, fissures of light showing through it and splintering downward into its face. It screamed its agony just once before vanishing into an implosion of red light.

Angel got slowly to his feet and leaned against his desk. "How did you know that?" he panted.

Doyle shrugged. "It's always the jewel or the horn or the weird tentacle thing, isn't it? Classic Trek, man."

"Well, good thing you were here, Doctor Frankengeek," Cordelia said, picking her way through the broken glass to peer out the window. "One little broken window sort of converts this room from an office to a temporary flaming death trap, doesn't it."

Angel was still thrumming inside from the fight, brief as it had been. He felt a hot ripple of pure desire go through him but Doyle was looking at Cordelia and so he stepped around him to the elevator. 

"Call someone to fix the window," he told Cordelia and hit the down button before she could protest. He needed a shower, and if he could get the water with chunks of ice in it, all the better.

  
 

* * *

It was hours later that Doyle wandered downstairs to find him. Angel was sitting at the table, drinking his third glass of water because if he drank any more coffee, he'd be jittery all night long. It had taken him a long time to get this calm, going through his tai chi exercises over and over until the throbbing desire to fuck, to kill, had eased back into something manageable. He was in control again, better than he'd been in over a week, and he had been quietly reading for some time. 

Doyle turned one of the chairs around and straddled it. "Window's fixed," he announced. "Cordelia went home because according to her, the stench of the guy who fixed it had permeated through all the layers of her clothing and she needed a bath before it started eating her flesh. Makes for an interesting mental picture, don't you think?"

"Mmhmm," Angel murmured, not looking up from his book. It had taken a long time but he had finally managed to move on from page ten. Now page two hundred and nine was calling to him and so long as he didn't look at Doyle, he could get to the next chapter. 

"I was thinking, why don't you and me go to a movie?"

"Why?" Still perfectly calm, on page two hundred and ten.

"I dunno, just thought we could do something else other than wild fucking an' fighting, so..."

"So what you're saying is you want to go on a date." Page two hundred and eleven was put on pause with a promise to return while he glanced up. Doyle was looking at him earnestly, his chin resting on his folded hands. Three strikes with Cordelia, possibly more since they'd been up in the office together for hours, had led him down to ask Angel.

Doyle rolled his eyes. "No, I'm saying that I wanted to get out of here for a bit--"

"--and go out together, which is, as far as I am aware, a date. My last girlfriend was a teenager, Doyle, I am well-informed about the specifics involved." He shook his head and went back to his book, very aware that Doyle smelled faintly of Cordelia's perfume. He didn't particularly care. He was calm, cool and easy within himself and all he wanted to do was read. "Forget it."

"Aw, c'mon, remember the whole spendin' time around people that you're supposed to be doing?"

"What I remember is that the Powers have forced us into bed together," Angel said calmly, not looking up again. The faintest spark of temper was lit inside him and he banished it quickly, speaking in a cool, measured tone. "I remember that the only reason you're sleeping with me is so your brains won't leak out on the floor. I remember that I'm being forced into all of this. So I'll save their victims, I'll be their champion and I'll even fuck their Messenger every night if I have to but that is as far as it goes. Do you understand?" This was a dangerous game the two of them were playing and he didn't intend to forget the rules again. 

He could see Doyle just out of the corner of his eye without looking away from the pages. Doyle wasn't looking at him. "Yeah. I get it." He stared at the table, drumming his fingers. "Right. I'll be back later then."

"Fine." Angel went back to his book. He didn't look up when the door closed softly.

  
 

* * *

 

 **  
Chapter Eleven   
**

 

 

He was still calm hours later, lying in bed as he drifted in and out of sleep. Part of him was waiting, unable to rest until he heard the outside door open and close, the uneven tread shuffling towards the bedroom. Angel could smell him first, the strong grain scent of cheap whiskey and the filth of secondhand cigarette smoke. Bar smells. Sour sweat and urine. 

The footsteps stopped close to the bed. Angel didn't open his eyes, only said, "You stink."

"Mebbe a bit." His words were faintly slurred, his breath alone raising the alcoholic tang of the air. Somehow, the fact of his drunkenness wasn't nearly as irritating as the smell of it. 

"Either take a shower or sleep on the sofa," Angel said grimly. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to see Doyle swaying in front of him. 

"What's all the fuss for two minutes of squelching noises?" There was the heavy sound of something falling to the floor, a leather jacket.

"Two minutes that you'll be on my sheets." He could smell musty beer and smoke. Underneath it all he was sure there was still that faint floral hint of Cordelia's perfume and he didn't want it anywhere near him. Not in his bed, not near his skin.

There was a long moment of silence and as much as he hated the stink so close to him, Angel was sleepy and comfortable and he was less than awake when he dimly heard Doyle mutter. "Forget it, I ain't doing this tonight."

Doyle started to walk away and that was fine too. If he wanted to leave, he could and take the whiskey and sweat and perfume smells with him. 

Only Doyle couldn't walk away, he remembered that too when he heard the vision begin. Just a gasp, the slap of a hand against the wall as Doyle staggered. 

He didn't need to see it with his eyes; he'd seen it a dozen times before and he could see it clearly in his head. Green eyes widened, his mouth open in a grimace as the pain gutted him. Angel listened to it, the sudden upward stutter of his heartbeat and it was long seconds before it slowed and Doyle took a deep breath, signaling its end.

He expected to hear the shower after that and then damp, clean skin would be beside him in the bed, and there would be drowsy, reluctant sex. Angel sighed and shifted as his body reacted with predictable eagerness. He didn't mind being persuasive and Doyle was oddly adorable in his reluctance, almost shy if he were allowed to call it that, shivering with each gentle touch. It was like he wanted to be coaxed into it and Angel could almost admit that he liked that, and drifted to sleep waiting for it.

The sound that woke him was familiar but not here in his home. Angel was on his feet before he was even awake, instinctively following it. He found Doyle near the elevator, curled into himself and his voice already hoarse from screaming.

Angel bent down to touch him and Doyle thrashed under his hand, convulsing with images that Angel couldn't see. He caught him under the armpits and hauled him up, dragged him towards the bed even as another convulsion rocked him. Mumbling useless words of comfort, Angel pulled him into the bedroom and settled him on the bed as carefully as he could. Doyle was gasping like he was drowning, eyes still fixed and glazed, stupid, stubborn bastard. 

His shoes were off and thrown to the floor, his shirt mostly unbuttoned before Angel realized Doyle's fumbling arms were fighting him and Doyle was speaking, mumbling, over and over again, "No...no...ain't gonna..." 

"Doyle, you know what will happen if--" Angel tried to say it gently but Doyle's struggles were getting stronger, fueled with drunken panic. One hand struck him in the face, more startling than painful and Angel caught it, using his own strength and weight to pin Doyle against the bed before he could hurt either of them. 

"Doyle," Angel tried to talk to him through the rising volume of whimpers and pleas of no, please, no. The struggling body beneath his own was hot with effort, his wrists clammy and sweaty in Angel's hands. His own guilt was so sudden and heavy it was like something living he could hold in his hands.

There was a new stink in the air, electric and bright blue to his senses. Not exactly fear, the pureness born only of sheer panic. Doyle was shuddering with it, his face blurring briefly into his demon visage and back, and he was twisting his hands in Angel's grip, trying uselessly to break free. 

Angel watched Doyle tremble underneath him, his eyes closed tightly against whatever it was he couldn't help seeing, and didn't know what he was supposed to do. The body beneath his own was half-naked, his legs forcibly spread by Angel between them. 

 _Do you want to make me rape you every night._

"Doyle," he whispered, his own voice cracking, and something about his quiet tone made Doyle still, panting and shaking. "They won't stop."

"I don't care," he moaned. He shook his head as if to deny all of it, droplets of sweat clinging to the ends of his hair spattering them both. "I don't wanna do this anymore. I'm more than this! I'm more than just your nightly fuck-fest." 

Doyle was stiff beneath him and Angel slowly let him go, easing off him to stand by the bed. 

He didn't move, stayed sprawled on the bed like a broken doll and his laughter was bitter and just as broken. "Oh, but I forgot, you're the one getting forced into this, isn't that right? Not like you chose to fight the evil undead, it's not like you wanted to...I just wanted to be left alone." 

He was weeping, rolling to bury his face in his arms. "I couldna helped them anyway, God--" He trailed off into a garbled shriek, arching like he was caught in an electric current and it was worse than anything Angel had seen, pain that wouldn't even let him breathe and his face was contorted in a raw, silent scream.

Angel couldn't even bear to watch it, can't imagine how it must feel. "Stop it," he shouted at the ceiling. "Stop hurting him, I'll do it!" He pulled the drawer in the bedside table completely out, fumbling through it to find the tube that they hadn't used since they'd left for Sunnydale. The drawer he flung aside, heard it splinter against the wall and didn't care. 

The vision had left Doyle gasping and weak, and Angel ruthlessly took advantage of his languidness, yanking off his pants hard enough that the seams groaned a protest. He remembered that first time, Doyle begging him to hurry, please hurry before another vision hit and Angel could do that, his body's eagerness was a new kind of shame but he'd use it anyway. 

Only this Doyle was waking up from the vision and fighting him, snarling drunkenly without even words. Angel was trying to be gentle, trying not to hurt him more than he had to and when a vision hit he was almost grateful. Struggles dimmed into seismic trembling and it made it easy to push his slick fingers inside, readying Doyle as much as he could hope to. His hands felt suddenly clumsy and too large, spreading Doyle open beneath him, sliding his legs over his shoulders, positioning him even as he slowly came back from whatever hell his visions sent him. 

His struggles took on an edge of franticness, blurring into the strength of his demon side and back, like he couldn't control the two halves and they were blending into something else entirely. It didn't matter, neither nor both were stronger than a vampire and his next scream was of frustration, echoing through the basement as he tore bruises into his wrists trying to free them.

"I hate you," Doyle breathed, and God, that hurt, like a splinter of wood lodged next to his heart.

"I know," Angel said softly. He eased into him, deeply, Doyle still brutally tight but none of it could keep Angel from pressing deeper, not the sudden, sweet clench of muscles around him, not Doyle's high-pitched gasp, his head thrown back against the blankets in a mockery of vision-pain. Slowly, Angel pulled out, drawing another whimper from Doyle with him and then back in, torn between hurrying and getting it over with and not hurting Doyle.

Doyle went suddenly, completely limp and for a moment Angel thought he'd passed out. Then he saw the faintest gleam from his eyes, barely open and knew he'd given up, and that was even worse. Worse that part of him was enjoying this, exalting in it, and he fucked Doyle as gently as he could, trying not to get rough. No more bruises, please, no more.

"It's all right," Angel murmured, and he was shocked to hear something like a sob in his voice. "This--this will help the visions, I promise, I--" He stuttered to a stop, closed his eyes and tried to hurry.

Doyle gasped, arching his back, "...hurts..." he mumbled and Angel froze.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, gentling his movements. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." A soft apology for each thrust and Doyle was writhing with him now, struggling against Angel's imprisoning hands again and this time Angel simply let him go. Enough bruises, enough pain and if Doyle wanted to gouge his eyes out with his thumbs, Angel would let him. 

There was a tiny shock of pain, Doyle's short nails digging into Angel's scalp as he yanked him down and the sudden heat of his mouth, sloppy and wet, flavored with cheap whiskey, stilled him.

"...s'not you," he whispered harshly into Angel's mouth, "Just--ah! Don't stop. God, don't stop." Desperate kisses, their teeth clicking painfully and the feel of Doyle's tongue in his mouth was strange and exotic, tasted so briefly once before when this began. His hands were brutally tight in Angel's hair, refusing to let him pull away. 

Angel reached up, touched the backs of them tentatively until they eased back down, let Angel twine their fingers together and press their combined hands back against the comforter. 

His mouth was oddly cooler on the inside, the taste of him beneath the whiskey and smoke like an addiction. He couldn't stop moving, thrusting into heat that was suddenly eager for him, hips that arching up against him. Doyle was bent nearly double, his breathing a harsh rasp beneath Angel's weight.

"God, so good," Doyle groaned, the softest vibration against Angel's lips. "Good. Don't stop, s'good."

"Yeah," Angel husked. He didn't, couldn't, rocking in and out as slowly as he could, while Doyle pleaded for more, incoherent cries and moans. It was incredible, the hot velvet clench around him, Doyle's fingers laced so tightly with his own he could feel the tendons straining. This was, God, there weren't words, this was art drawn with sweat and skin, and he couldn't stop, couldn't, God, couldn't.

Angel tore his mouth from Doyle's, buried his face against the knee resting on his shoulder, "Jesus, Doyle," he whimpered. 

"Angel," Doyle's voice broke on his name, Doyle was broken beneath him, his face flushed and damp, and he still stank of whiskey and smoke, Angel could taste it in his sweat and didn't care. He felt the sudden heat of a tongue against his neck, Doyle licking his way up the jugular, the barest hint of teeth and that finished him. He thought he might have screamed, certainly someone did and his orgasm boiled out of him, burned through him and blinded him, and it was so fucking good. He tasted salt on his lips, sweat he thought, and the sudden tightening around his cock as Doyle came made him hiss softly, so sensitive it was nearly a kind of pain. 

He didn't remember pulling out or moving aside, Doyle barely managing to breathe beneath him. Didn't remember anything, until he woke again, the clock telling him through the gloom that it was barely five, and Doyle was gone.

 

* * *

 **  
Chapter Twelve   
**

 

He had to admit it. If there was something Cordelia was good at, it was providing a distraction. Spending the morning trying to convince him that they needed a commercial to advertise their services was certainly a good way to keep him from wondering about Doyle. Not the best way, mind, but a way. 

"I'm the dark avenger," Angel repeated her, slowly. As enjoyable conversations went, this wasn't one.

Cordelia was glowing with excitement, though whether it was for her idea or the fact that she was guaranteed the starring role in the commercial wasn't clear. "I know, it's perfect! We can do it ourselves on High 8. I'll charm a post-production house into doing the effects and we could have this on the air in a week, tops. Come on, it'll be great! We'll pull out all the stops."

"Why don't we just leave the stops where they are for now, okay?" Angel said tiredly. He got to his feet and walked to the elevator, trying to ignore her protests. Maybe he'd be better off to just get in a little exercise instead, before Cordelia had him agreeing to something he'd regret later, like wearing a Batman suit.

He started closing the gate and stopped when something in her voice changed, catching him.

"What's going on?" Cordelia was frowning at him. It made a little wrinkle appear between her eyebrows that he decided he should never tell her about.

"What do you mean?"

"No, you are not going to play big and dumb with me! Something is going on with you and Doyle. I thought it was because you had to see Buffy but that doesn't explain why Doyle's been all spoggly. You've both been acting weird and I want to know why. I thought we were in this together." She faltered on that, looked down at the floor and took a deep breath before she met his eyes again. "There's no 'me' in team you know."

Angel blinked. "Actually--"

"I don't care! You two are keeping secrets and I want to know why."

She was right and he hadn't really thought about it when he'd agreed to keep this a secret. But what was he supposed to tell her, how could he even begin to explain. Suddenly, he couldn't look at her anymore, lifted a hand and pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes to forestall a growing ache.

"Something's really wrong, isn't it," she asked with quiet shrewdness. The door opening interrupted them. Doyle walked slowly inside, looking...completely normal, all told. Angel felt a surge of unexpected irritation. Shouldn't he be marked by this somehow? Or maybe he was just getting so used to seeing Doyle looking like hell that it seemed like he'd never seen him any other way. 

"Hey," he said and shoved his hands in his pockets. He was wearing the red shirt but it was the wariness in his eyes that Angel thought might have finished him. He looked at Doyle in his brilliantly red shirt, felt something glowing and hot behind his eyes and suddenly this was all too much.

"Cordelia, why don't you go get some coffee and donuts." It was as close to an order as he dared.

"Oh, right, like you have sudden urge for a Krispy Kreme." But she took the twenty he offered, looking between them as she went out the door. It was rather a testament to the uneasiness between them that she didn't stay and demand an answer. That would come later, he was sure.

Doyle was studying the floor, his hands cupping his elbows. 

"Sit down," Angel said, softly.

"Think I'd rather be standing, I--"

"Sit your ass down."

Doyle looked up then, his eyes wide and startled. It shifted quickly to irritation but he limped over to a chair and threw himself into it sullenly. Angel winced in sympathetic pain. Last night probably hadn't helped the healing wound but he didn't smell any blood. Not too badly strained, then. He sat in the chair with his head down looking for all the world like a teenager about to be punished for staying out too late, a mixture of anger and guilt.

That was fine. He could keep his anger, his bitterness, he could let it reflect from his eyes like a silver-cold mirror. Whatever he wanted to do with it, though, it was his and Angel was heartily sick of carrying the burden of other people's anger. He had enough to carry with him. 

"I'm not doing that again, Doyle." Angel kept his words slow and calm. "I won't. If you don't want to do this then we need to figure out some other way to give the Powers a hint that we don't want it."

Doyle had his face in his hands, the dark hair at his temples ruffling beneath his fingertips, and he shook his head wearily. "I dunno how--"

"Well, we haven't exactly tried anything else!" Angel snapped. 

"Doesn't matter," Doyle said dully. "That's not really the problem, is it."

Angel stopped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, you had me pinned on the fucking bed and I was still loving it," he replied angrily. Angel felt a flush of shamed heat and looked away. "Can't exactly hide it so I might as well say it." He glared at Angel. "Is that what you want, you want me to say it? Fine, I like it, all of it. I like sucking cock and taking it in the bum, all right? Been liking it just fine!"

"I like it too," Angel admitted, bewildered. "So what's the problem?"

"The problem? You tell me! I thought we were doing all right and you blew up at me yesterday like someone pissed in your morning coffee!"

His own sullen anger, banked to coals, surged to feeble renewed life. "How did you want me to act when you came to me after spending all day chasing Cordelia?"

Doyle stared at him. "Oh, for fuck's sake, what are you, sixteen? All that time with the high schoolers rub off on you? I wanted her to come with me to a movie, not to move in! I told you before I wanted to see it."

He had, Angel suddenly recalled. While they were twined in bed together, still naked and flushed with sex, Doyle had mentioned wanting to see a movie.

"I just didn't want to see the damned thing by myself! Figured you wouldn't want to go, you're not exactly a matinee guy."

"Then why did you ask me?" Angel blurted out. 

Doyle gave him a disgusted look. "Hoped you'd say yes, didn't I? Instead, you tore my head off. That's fine though, if you want to go on about Cordy, that's all right. Why don't you tell me, when you were in the kitchen chatting up your ex about me, would you have chosen me over her?"

Startled, Angel frowned. "What--"

"You're not the only fucking demon on the planet with ears!" he snarled. "I could hear every damned thing you said! So tell me, would you? Huh?"

"No," he whispered. He felt stupid and ashamed, and of course Doyle was right. He had no right to be possessive, he'd always known that but it was only in this moment that he believed it.

"Fine. That's fine. So shut it about Cordelia, all right? Jesus, I--" He pushed himself roughly to his feet and his wounded leg had apparently had enough abuse for the day. It crumpled beneath him and Doyle barely had time to cry out in pain before he fell.

Angel grabbed him before he could hit the ground and yanked him back up. They ended up pressed together, Doyle's face so close to his own and his lips were parted, just the edge of his teeth visible. His breath was feather-soft, hot and damp, smelling of toothpaste and, God--

Angel couldn't even speak, just lowered his head and tasted Doyle's mouth. Soft, so soft, and hot, easy to slip his tongue inside and explore the slick heat of his mouth like he hadn't really been able to the night before and his mind was frozen, part of him already cringing from Doyle's stillness. He'd have every right to pull away, angry and swearing and he'd probably leave again, leave Angel alone until he came back that night because he had to. 

Except he wasn't swearing, he wasn't fighting, his hands ghosted up the back of Angel's shirt to settle on his head, fingertips sifting through his hair as Doyle kissed him back. Kissed him back, God, kissed him  _back_ , his tongue sweet and alive against Angel's. 

He was barely aware of stepping forward, carrying Doyle with him until the wall was there, holding them both up. It didn't matter, nothing so important as the slick mouth open beneath his own and he pressed closer, getting a leg between Doyle's and pushing against him the way Doyle liked. He was hard against Angel's thigh, his moan a soft vibration between their mouths and his tongue was hot and deft, flicking against Angel's lips, licking roughly. 

Angel slid his hands down over the warm curve of Doyle's hips, thinking only of lifting Doyle up so he could grind against him and he was already half-convinced he was going to fuck him right here against this wall. Doyle had one arm around Angel, his head caught in the crook of Doyle's elbow and he was holding him in hard, biting his lips and soothing each nip with a light flicker of tongue. 

He tightening a hand on Doyle's thigh, intent on hoisting him a little higher and Doyle's sudden yelp of pain was caught in his mouth and Angel jerked back, pulling both mouth and hands away the bare inch that Doyle allowed. 

"Sorry," he panted, not needing the air but some reactions never really faded. 

"S'ok," Doyle wheezed, eyes closed tightly. He started laughing then, suddenly, and Angel couldn't help smiling even though he had no idea why. They were still pressed together, chest to thigh and Angel relaxed back against him, careful of his injured leg. 

"We suck at this, you know," Doyle said. He was still smiling, his lips damp and looking extremely kissable. Angel resisted the urge, for the moment. 

"Yeah. We suck," Angel admitted. He leaned down to rest his forehead against Doyle's. "I'm sorry," he said, quietly. 

Doyle sighed, deeply. "Yeah, me too. I guess if we're going to live in each other's pockets, we better declare all other pockets off limits, yeah?"

Probably a good idea, all things considered. "I'm not really good at this."

"I won't be winning any awards either. Not exactly flattering that the only way I can get laid is if cosmic forces send someone my way."

Angel snorted. "You're not the only one." It made them both chuckle, not a particularly comfortable thing the way they were standing but Angel didn't feel like moving and Doyle wasn't protesting. He opened his eyes, lazily, pale green that gleamed with humor and arousal. 

"You have the nicest eyes," Angel said and immediately felt stupid. 

Doyle laughed again, awkwardly this time. "If I had a quarter every time someone said that...I'd have to borrow a dollar from you to buy a coffee." Those eyes went suddenly wide, staring over his shoulder. "Cordy, don't!"

It was instinct to whirl around, holding Doyle behind him despite his protests. Cordelia was standing in the doorway, holding the crossbow they kept in the front office directly at them. "He's gone all evil again, hasn't he? I knew it, I knew something weird was going on!"

Doyle rudely shoved Angel aside, holding out both hands to Cordelia placatingly. "No, no," Doyle soothed, "We were just chatting is all, him and me."

"How do I know you're not all evil too?" she asked suspiciously. "He could have made you all 'grr' while I was gone."

"Princess, it takes a little longer to go to the vamp side than it does to get a coffee. Besides, we don't need any more evil around the office. We have you."

"Hey!" she sputtered, but she let him disarm her. "Something is still weird. How many people chat pressed up against a wall?" she asked skeptically. "Unless you're lip reading with your own lips or something, it doesn't really--" Dawning realization and Doyle winced. 

"Oh," Cordelia pursed her lips. "You know, I think I need about ten more mochachinos. I'll leave you to," she gestured vaguely. "Work it out or whatever."

She whirled on Doyle and smacked him hard on the back of the head, ignoring his yelp of protest. "After that, we're having a long talk, Mister, do you hear me?" With that, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and strolled out. 

"That didn't go quite how I planned," Doyle said wryly, rubbing his head, and then at Angel's expression, "What?"

"I don't know, you're just taking this so," he gestured weakly. "Well? I didn't think you wanted Cordelia to know."

Doyle shrugged. "I think I'm too freaked by my latest near death experience. Give me twenty and I'll see if I can work up some hysterics for you."

"You don't have to do me any favors." Angel sat on the desk and stared at his clasped hands. "Um, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," Doyle said, heavily. "I think so. I mean, most of the demons in LA, all your pals in Sunnydale and even the blond party favor know we're making with the pelvic." He laughed a little. "Guess it was just getting old worrying about it. Never done anything like this before and I wouldn't be now if it weren't for the visions, but I like it well enough." He flicked Angel a glance. "You might have noticed that by now."

"A little."

"I don't mind it so much now, you know. You know what really gets me? I just--I can't leave," he whispered. "It scares the living hell out of me. I'm not saying I would, mind, but  _can't_ , that's something different." He scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "I'm not really keen on being stuck here. You, now, you can go anywhere you want and I'll be running after you like a lost pup."

"No, I can't," Angel told him, softly. He met Doyle's exasperated look evenly. He reached out and traced a finger down Doyle's cheek, felt the faint abrasiveness of stubble. "I really can't."

A long moment passed, and then Doyle seemed to give in and tilted his head a little into Angel's touch. "Yeah," Doyle sighed. "Yeah, you might be right."

* * *

 **  
Chapter Thirteen   
**

 

He'd never really planned on coming here again. Not quite on 'penalty of death' planning, but at least on the absolutely certainty of not a chance in hell. But he'd done a lot of things in the past few years that he had sworn he would never do, and sometimes there was just no other choice. He was just grateful that Doyle and Cordelia weren't here to see it.

"...don't let the suuuuun, go down on meeee..."

Angel kept his eyes glued to the lyrics screen. If he pretended that there was no one in the audience watching him, he could get through this.He'd heard once that imagining people in their underwear was the cure for stage fright but frankly, if he started picturing demons in thongs, he was going to have to stake himself. There were some things that were just too painful.

The last lines finally scrolled off the screen and a green hand snatched the microphone away.

"Well, move over Elton, I think we have a new performer in the house," he said over the feeble applause. "I'm going to have a little one on one with our sharp dressed man, here, and Muula the Mahwi is going to smooth things out with a little Motown."

The tune for 'I Second That Emotion' cued up as Angel followed the demon offstage. He motioned to a chair at an empty table and Angel sat, clasping his hands together on the table and looking at them. He waited in silence while the waitress brought a tray of drinks to their table and drank his single shot of whiskey in one swallow. Maybe Doyle was rubbing off on him in unexpected ways. His mind gleefully ran away with that double entendre and Angel crossed his legs self-consciously. Information, he reminded himself. 

The demon gave him a charming smile. "Interesting choice of songs. You might need to work on your sense of irony a bit. I'll tell you one thing, though, you give off vibes that make my hormones stand up and do the cha cha cha." 

"What did you see?"

"Well, I can tell you I didn't see a first look meeting with Virgin any time in your future." Angel looked at him blankly and he sighed. "Put down a note for a tune up on your sense of humor, too."

"Did you see anything?" Angel asked impatiently. He'd had two hundred years to avoid getting a sense of humor, he didn't need one right now.

"In a rush, are we?" The demon sipped his drink, not hurrying at all. "Of course, I saw something. You're not dead," he paused, "All right, let's just imagine we said all the little witticism that go with that and move on. Yes, I saw something but nothing that needs to be said." 

"What?" Angel frowned. He'd paid the price and now he wanted the full service. 

"Look, sweetie, no one ever wants to believe this but sometimes you already have all the information you need." He shrugged. "I can usually get around it, throw them a couple bones that won't send them teetering the wrong way but for you, I'll tell the truth."

Angel tore a hand through his hair in frustration. "That's not enough. I want to know what's going on with all the visions. I want to know  _why_." And if Doyle didn't want to know, he was going to find things out on his own. At the moment, Doyle was back at the office without the slightest clue that Angel was here and for that, he was grateful. As far as Doyle knew he was meeting someone about getting some rare books for his collection. He really needed to write down the good excuses when he thought of them, he didn't work well under pressure.

Part of him was not at all pleased with this plan, and not just because of the karaoke. If they found out all the details then there was a chance the visions would stop and if the visions stopped, the sex would stop, and that idea had absolutely no appeal at all. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something in this was strange. The two of them had been so involved with the result of the visions that they'd forgotten there had to be a cause. He'd been unhappily reminded of that today when he'd suggested they find a way to stop it. He owed it to Doyle to see if it was possible.

He'd decided it would be better if Doyle wasn't here, just in case the information was upsetting, like there was no way to stop the visions and had left him in Cordelia's tender care. And he was going to keep telling himself that because if there was a way to stop the visions, he would tell Doyle. He would.

"And I thought you were going to get Irish to spill everything to you?" His expression must have revealed his growing frustrating because the demon sighed and shook his head. "Look, you may be the lowest man on the totem pole around here but Doyle and I are only standing on your shoulders. The big kahunas don't give us all the juicy details. So really, I just don't have anything. Their reasons aren't for us to know right now."

Angel frowned. "I thought you said it was because they didn't want me getting distracted."

"I did," he agreed. "That's what Doyle believes, one hundred percent."

"But--"

"Tell you what, I'm going to do something else for you," the host interrupted smoothly. "I'm going to give you some advice." 

"Advice," Angel repeated dubiously. 

He waved an idle hand. "All advice is the same, you know. I'll admit, peeking into the spirit gives a good helping hand, but if people had half the common sense they think they do then most bartenders would be out of work. " He smirked and pointed a finger at Angel. "You have a hard time with the obvious, don't you. You and everyone else, don't feel too bad about it. Okay, here's the thing, you're the hero of this story, right?"

"Yes."

"So tell me, then, what's this all really about?" he prompted. Angel said nothing. "The visions, right? Come on, this isn't the home version of the game, we're live and on the air, work with me! Now, what are the visions?"

"They're pictures, information..."

He flapped a hand impatiently. "No, no, that's incidental. Try harder, just take your time...did you get your IQ on loan from Dan Quayle? Let's try this, if you don't know what they are do you know what they're not? The visions aren't for helping you."

"Of course they are," he said, exasperated. "All they  _do_  is help me."

"Oh, really? Help you what?"

"They help me..."  _Help others._  It clicked in his mind like a puzzle piece. 

The demon smiled. "Ah, a light dawns. I can see it in those big beautiful eyes of yours. You don't really need him, you know. If he died tomorrow you'd get on just fine without him -- ease up on those guns, Jethro, that wasn't a threat. I'm just saying you don't need him. You can fill in the rest of the blanks, big guy."

"He needs me," Angel whispered. 

"And the scarecrow got a brain." He looked amused. "I guess we'll see later if the tin woodsman gets a heart. I'm really getting to like you, you know. Have a drink before you go, on me." The demon patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Next time you come, wear that coat. It really is divine." He started away and then turned back, "Oh, and as long as you have him, could you try to do something about Doyle's wardrobe. Sweet guy, but really." He shivered delicately as he walked back to the stage.

He sat at the table a little longer and listened to a remarkably well sung version of 'Yesterday'. Demons brushed past him, to and from the bar, carrying on with their lives or unlives; Angel barely noticed. Advice instead of information, such a fine line, and yet--

Angel peeled off a twenty and left it under his glass for the waitress. 

 

* * *

  
If Angel were honest, he'd admit that he'd learned more about Doyle in the past week than he had in all the months he'd known him. And not just things like that he was extremely ticklish behind the knees and that if you gave one of his nipples a light pinch, his cock would give a little bounce all by itself. Though those were true, too. Now he could add one more thing to his list. 

Doyle could not dance. 

Admittedly, he might do a better job if he wasn't cooking at the time but from what Angel could see of his sense of rhythm, there was a pretty good chance of white man syndrome going on. 

That was one thing they had in common. 

It didn't stop him from watching though, noting with amusement the towel Doyle had tucked into his waistband as a makeshift apron. The Stones were blaring on the stereo and Doyle was singing along. Karaoke night seemed to have infiltrated the city. At least his singing was a marked improvement on his dancing. 

"I can't get no, no, no, no, sat-is--fucking Jesus hell!" A wooden spoon went flying through the air and by some miracle, landed in the sink. Doyle had a hand pressed against his chest as he staggered over to the stereo and turned it down. "Christ, could you knock or something?"

"It's my house," Angel pointed out mildly. He lifted the lid on one of the pots and frowned at the bubbling red contents. Tomato sauce, he realized. 

"Then wear a bell or get a bike horn or something," Doyle grabbed a clean spoon from the rack and stirred the pot. Casual and easy, like this was all completely normal for them "I'd say I was making a dinner for two but Cordelia went home and you like a different kind of red sauce. By the way, you owe Cordelia a shopping spree and I think you owe me a couple bottles of Jim Beam for talking her down. She's right inventive with the torture ideas. What do they teach in that High School in Sunnydale?"

Angel winced in sympathy. "Rough conversation?" He really had gone down to the karaoke bar for information, not to avoid that particular chat with Cordelia. Really. He had. 

"I'd rather mate repeatedly with a Cuisenart than ever do that again. Would you want to admit to a gel you enjoy getting fucked up the arse?"

"I don't know, I've never tried it." Doyle was tasting the sauce and added some salt and some kind of herb Angel didn't recognize. Another detail, Doyle didn't seem to be a bad cook.  _And he needs me._  "Do you want to?"

Doyle spilled the spoonful of sauce down the front of his shirt and fumbled to keep his spoon from hitting the floor. Angel waited patiently for him to finish his impromptu Stooges impression as he swore and scrubbed the front of his shirt with his towel. He slowed to a stop, biting his lip, and tossed the towel on the counter. 

"You'd let me?" He was blushing, Angel saw, his cheeks flushed with ruddy color. This man could suck the copper off a penny and he was blushing  _now_?

"I just said I would."

"Right." Doyle didn't move. He looked rather like his IQ had just dropped about fifty points. "But that's not in the vision," Doyle said dumbly. 

"So what? You think somebody is going to slap you on the hand with a cosmic ruler?"

"S'not my hand I'm worried about." But Angel could tell the idea had some appeal. He could smell it, the first wisp of arousal, and Doyle needed him. Needed. There was a stain from the sauce on the front of his shirt and Angel gave a moment to mourn the loss, he really did like that red shirt. Maybe if he soaked it right now...

Doyle stepped in and kissed him, hard, shoving him back against the kitchen counter and all Angel could do was hold on to him. He tasted horribly of tomatoes and his mouth was brutal, teeth pressing painfully into his lips before his tongue slid over Angel's. 

Fuck it, he'd buy him a new shirt. 

Suddenly, Doyle pulled away, his eyes wide and his breathing harsh.

"What?" Angel asked, confused.

"Fucking...bad...timing..." he gritted out, pressing a hand against his forehead. 

Just about the worst timing in the world. Doyle sagged against the other wall, twitching with the pain and Angel pulled him into his arms so that his back was against his chest and he could rest his chin on Doyle's shoulder, waiting for it to ease. 

Doyle took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned back against him, pressing his cheek to Angel's. "I guess dinner and everything else is gonna have to get put in a cooler. Something big is going on and we need to go." 

He pulled free and switched off the stove, snatching up the pot and shoving the entire thing into the refrigerator. "We better give Cordy a call, she's feeling a little left out right now and--"

Angel kissed him, just tangled his hand in that oh, so red shirt and yanked him forward, sliding his tongue between those soft lips before he could even protest. Just a short one, as short as he could manage and when he pulled away Doyle looked a little dazed but pleased enough. "Now that you've got that out of your system, can we go?"

"Lead on," he said, following Doyle to the lift. There was evil to fight for now and spaghetti and sex would wait for later. This wasn't finished and Angel knew it. Something was still not right. But Doyle needed him. 

And that was just fine. 

  
-finis-

  


 

  


 


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